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WORKS OF S. S. CURRY, Ph.D., Liit.D. 
 
 Of eminent value. — Dr. Lyman Abbott, 
 
 Both method and spirit practically without precedent. — J. M. 
 Levequb, Editor Morning World, New Orleans. 
 
 PROVINCE OF EXPRESSION. A study of the general 
 problems regarding delivery and the principles underly- 
 ing its development. $1.50 ; to teachers, $1.20. 
 The work of a highly intellectual man who thinks and feels 
 
 deeply, who is in earnest and whose words are entitled to the most 
 
 thoughtfvd consideration. — William Wintbb. 
 
 LESSONS IN VOCAL EXPRESSION. Study of the modu- 
 lations of the voice as caused by action of the mind. 
 It is the best book on expression I ever read, far ahead of any- 
 thing published. — Pbof. Geoboe A. Vinton, Chicago. 
 
 IMAGINATION AND DRAMATIC INSTINCT. Creative 
 action of the mind, insight, sympathy, and assimilation in 
 vocal expression. 
 The best book ever published on elocution. — A prominent 
 
 teacher and public reader. 
 
 VOCAL AND LITERARY INTERPRETATION OF THE 
 BIBLE. 
 
 Deserves the attention of everyone. — The Scotsman^ Edinhoro. 
 Will serve to aboUsh "hardshell" reading where "hardshell" 
 preaching is no longer tolerated. — Dr. Lyman Abbott. 
 
 FOUNDATIONS OF EXPRESSION. Principles and funda- 
 mental steps in the training of the mind, body, and voice 
 in speaking. 
 "By its aid I have accomplished double the usual results." 
 
 BROWNING AND THE DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE. In- 
 troduction to Browning's poetry and dramatic platform 
 art. Studies of some later phases of dramatic expression. 
 $1.25; to teachers, $1.10 postpaid. 
 
 CLASSICS FOR VOCAL EXPRESSION. $1.25 ; to teachers, 
 $1.10 postpaid. 
 
 OTHER BOOKS IN PREPARATION. 
 
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 THE EXPRESSION LEAGUE 
 Room 308, Pierce Building, Copley Sq. Boston, Mass. 
 
BROWNING 
 
 AND 
 
 THE DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE 
 
 NATURE AND INTERPRETATION OF AN 
 OVERLOOKED FORM OF LITERATURE 
 
 S. S. CURRY, Ph.D., Litt.D. 
 
 President of the School of Expression 
 
 BOSTON 
 EXPRESSION COMPANY 
 
 Pierce Building, Copley Square 
 
TUBRAKY of CONG?:SSS! 
 " Two Copies HecaiY Ai 
 
 Jopyrtgrii entry 
 I'JLaSJ? A AXc. niu. 
 
 / 
 
 Copyright, 1908 
 By S. S. Curry 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Part I 
 
 THE MONOLOGUE AS A DRAMATIC FORM 
 
 Page 
 
 I. A New Literary Form 1 
 
 II. The Speaker 12 
 
 III. The Hearer 30 
 
 IV. Place or Situation 64 
 
 V. Time and Connection 78 
 
 VI. Argument 86 
 
 VII. The Monologue as a Form of Literature . 100 
 
 VIII. History of the Monologue 113 
 
 Part II 
 
 DRAMATIC RENDERING OF THE MONOLOGUE 
 
 IX. Necessity of Oral Rendition 133 
 
 X. Actions of Mind and Voice 147 
 
 XI. Actions of Mind and Body 172 
 
 XII. The Monologue and Metre 195 
 
 XIII. Dialect 222 
 
 XIV. Properties 230 
 
 XV. Faults in Rendering a Monologue . . . 241 
 
 XVI. Importance of the Monologue 248 
 
 XVII. Some Typical Monologues from Browning . 265 
 
 Index 305 
 
PART I 
 
 THE MONOLOGUE AS A DRAMATIC 
 
 FORM 
 
 I. A NEW LITERARY FORM 
 
 Why were the poems of Robert Browning so long 
 unread ? Why was his real message or spirit under- 
 stood by few forty years after he began to write ? 
 
 The story is told that Douglas Jerrold, when 
 recovering from a serious illness, opened a copy of 
 "Sordello, " which was among some new books 
 sent to him by a friend. Sentence after sentence 
 brought no consecutive thought, and at last it 
 dawned upon him that perhaps his sickness had 
 wrecked his mental faculties, and he sank back 
 on the sofa, overwhelmed with dismay. Just then 
 his wife and sister entered and, thrusting the book 
 into their hands, he eagerly demanded what they 
 thought of it. He watched them intently, and 
 when at last Mrs. Jerrold exclaimed, "I do not 
 understand what this man means," Jerrold uttered 
 a cry of relief, "Thank God, I am not an idiot!" 
 Browning, while protesting that he was not obscure, 
 used to tell this story with great enjoyment. 
 
 What was the chief cause of the almost universal 
 failure to understand Browning ? Many reasons 
 are assigned. His themes were such as had never 
 before been found in poetry, his allusions and il- 
 lustrations so unfamiliar as to presuppose wide 
 knowledge on the part of the reader; he had a 
 very concise and abrupt way of stating things. 
 
2 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Yet, after all, were these the chief causes ? Was 
 he not obscure because he had chosen a new or 
 unusual dramatic form ? Nearly every one of his 
 poems is written in the form of a monologue, which, 
 according to Professor Johnson, "may be termed 
 a novelty of invention in Browning." Hence, to 
 the average man of a generation ago. Browning's 
 poems were written in almost a new language. 
 
 This secret of the difficulty of appreciating 
 Browning is not even yet fully realized. There are 
 many "Introductions" to his poems and some 
 valuable works on his life, yet nowhere can we find 
 an adequate discussion of his dramatic form, its 
 nature, and the influence it has exerted upon 
 modern poetry. 
 
 Let us endeavor to take the point of view of the 
 average man who opened one of Browning's vol- 
 umes when first published ; or let us imagine the 
 feeling of an ordinary reader to-day on first chanc- 
 ing upon such a poem as "The Patriot." 
 
 The average man beginning to read, "It was 
 roses, roses," fancies he is reading a mere story and 
 waits for the unfolding of events, but very soon 
 becomes confused. Where is he ? Nothing hap- 
 pens. Somebody is talking, but about what.? 
 
 One who looks for mere effects and not for 
 causes, for facts and not for experiences, for a 
 mere sequence of events, and not for the laying 
 bare of the motives and struggles of the human 
 heart, will be apt soon to throw the book down and 
 turn to his daily paper to read the accounts of 
 stocks, fires, or murders, disgusted with the very 
 name of Browning, if not with poetry. 
 
 If he look more closely, he will find a subtitle, 
 "An Old Story," but this confuses him still more. 
 
A New Literary Form 3 
 
 "Story" is evidently used in some peculiar sense, 
 and "old" may be used in the sense of ancient, 
 familiar, or oft-repeated ; it may imply that certain 
 results always follow certain conditions. If a care- 
 
 THE PATRIOT 
 
 AN OLD STORY 
 
 It was roses, roses, all the way. 
 
 With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: 
 The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway. 
 
 The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, 
 A year ago on this very day. 
 
 The air broke into a mist with bells. 
 
 The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. 
 
 Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels — 
 But give me your sun from yonder skies ! " 
 
 They had answered "And afterward, what else?" 
 
 Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun 
 
 To give it my loving friends to keep ! 
 Naught man could do, have I left undone: 
 
 And you see my harvest, what I reap 
 This very day, now a year is run. 
 
 There 's nobody on the house-tops now — 
 
 Just a palsied few at the windows set; 
 For the best of the sight is, all allow. 
 
 At the Shambles' Gate — or, better yet. 
 By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. 
 
 I go in the rain, and, more than needs, 
 
 A rope cuts both my wrists behind; 
 And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, 
 
 For they fling, whoever has a mind. 
 Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. 
 
 Thus I entered, and thus I go ! 
 
 In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. 
 *'Paid by the world, what dost thou owe 
 
 Me ? " — God might question ; now instead, 
 'T is God shall repay : I am safer so. 
 
4 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 ful student glance through the poem, he will find 
 that the Patriot is one who entered the city a year 
 before, and who during this time has done his best 
 to secure reforms, but at the end of the year is led 
 forth to the scaffold. The poem pictures to us the 
 thoughts that stir his mind on the way to his death. 
 He recognizes the same street, he remembers the 
 roses, the myrtle, the house-roofs so crowded that 
 they seem to heave and sway, the flags on the 
 church spires, the bells, the willingness of the mul- 
 titude to give him even the sun; but he it is who 
 aimed at the impossible — to give his friends the 
 sun. Having done all he could, now comes his 
 reward. There is nobody on the house-tops, and 
 only a few too old to go to the scaffold have crept 
 to the windows. The great crowd is at the gate or 
 at the scaffold's foot. He goes in the rain, his hands 
 tied behind him, his forehead bleeding from the 
 stones that are hurled at him. The closing thought, 
 so abruptly expressed, the most difficult one in the 
 poem, is a mere hint of what might have happened 
 had he triumphed in the world's sense of the word. 
 He might have fallen dead, — dead in a deeper 
 sense than the loss of life ; his soul might have be- 
 come dead to truth, to noble ideals, and to aspira- 
 tion. Had he done what men wanted him to do, 
 he would have been paid by the world. He has 
 certainly not done the world's bidding, and in a 
 few short words he reveals his resignation, his 
 heroism, and his subhme triumph. 
 
 "Now instead, 
 'T is God shall repay: I am safer so." 
 
 The first line of the last stanza in the first edition 
 of the poem contained the word "Brescia," sug- 
 
A New Literary Form 5 
 
 gesting a reference to the reformer Arnold. But 
 Browning later omitted "Brescia," because the 
 poem was not meant to be in any sense historical, 
 but rather to represent the reformer of every age 
 whose ideals are misunderstood and whose noblest 
 work is rewarded by death. *' History," said Aris- 
 totle, "tells what Alcibiades did, poetry what he 
 ought to have done." "The Patriot" is not a 
 matter-of-fact narrative, but a revelation of human 
 experience. 
 
 The reader must approach such a poem as a 
 work of art. Sympathetic and contemplative at- 
 tention must be given to it as an entirety. Then 
 point after point, idea after idea, will become clear 
 and vivid, and at last the whole will be intensely 
 reahzed. 
 
 For another example of Browning's short poems 
 take "A Woman's Last Word." 
 
 Suppose one tries to read this as if it were an 
 ordinary lyric. One is sure to be greatly confused 
 as to its meaning. What is it all about ? The 
 words are simple enough, and while the ordinary 
 man recognizes this, he is all the more perplexed. 
 Perceiving certain merits, he exclaims, "If a man 
 can write such beautiful individual lines, why does 
 he not make his whole story clear and simple.^" 
 
 If, however, one will meditate over the whole, 
 take hints here and there and put them together, 
 a distinct picture is slowly formed in the mind. A 
 wife, whose husband demands that she explain to 
 him something in her past life, is speaking. She 
 has perhaps loved some one before him, and his 
 curiosity or jealousy is aroused. The poem really 
 constitutes her appeal to his higher nature and her 
 insistence upon the sacredness of their present re- 
 
6 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 lation, which she fears words may profane. She 
 does not even fully understand the past herself. 
 To explain would be false to him, hence with love 
 and tenderness she pleads for delay. Yet she 
 promises to speak his "speech," but "to-morrow, 
 not to-night." Perhaps she hopes that his mood 
 will change; possibly she feels that he is not now 
 in the right attitude of mind to understand or 
 sympathize with her experiences. 
 
 A WOMAN'S LAST V^ORD 
 
 Let 's contend no more, Love, 
 
 Strive nor weep: 
 All be as before, Love, 
 
 — Only sleep ! 
 
 What so wild as words are ? 
 
 I and thou 
 In debate, as birds are, 
 
 Hawk on bough ! 
 
 See the creature stalk^ing 
 
 While we speak ! 
 Hush and hide the talking, 
 
 Cheek on cheek. 
 
 What so false as truth is, 
 
 False to thee ? 
 Where the serpent's tooth is, 
 
 Shun the tree — • 
 
 Where the apple reddens, 
 
 Never pry — 
 Lest we lose our Edens, 
 
 Eve and I. 
 
 Be a god and hold me 
 
 With a charm ! 
 Be a man and fold me 
 
 With thine arm ! 
 
 Teach me, only teach. Love ! 
 
 As I ought 
 I will speak thy speech. Love, 
 
 Think thy thought — 
 
 Meet, if thou require it, 
 
 Both demands 
 Laying flesh and spirit 
 
 In thy hands. 
 
 That shall be to-morrow, 
 
 Not to-night: 
 I must bury sorrow 
 
 Out of sight: 
 
 — Must a little weep. Love, 
 
 (Foolish me !) 
 And so fall asleep. Love, 
 
 Loved by thee. 
 
 In this poem a most delicate relation between two 
 human beings is interpreted. Short though it is, it 
 yet goes deeper into motives, concentrates atten- 
 tion more energetically upon one point of view, 
 
A New Literary Form 7 
 
 and is possibly more impressive than if the theme 
 had been unfolded in a play or novel It turns the 
 Hstener or reader within himself, and he teels m his 
 own breast the response to her words. 
 
 All ^reat art discharges its function by evoking 
 imagination and feeling, but it is not always the 
 intellectual meaning which first appears. 
 
 However far apart these two poems may be m 
 spirit or subject, there are certain characteristics 
 common to them ; they are both monologues . 
 
 The monologue, as Browning has exemphfied it, 
 is one end of a conversation. A definite speaker is 
 conceived in a definite, dramatic situation. Usu- 
 ally we find also a well-defined hstener, though his 
 character is understood entirely from the impres- 
 sion he produces upon the speaker. We feel that 
 this hstener has said something and that his pres- 
 ence and character influence the speaker's thought, 
 words, and manner. The conversation does not 
 consist of abstract remarks, but takes place in a 
 definite situation as a part of human life. 
 
 We must realize the situation, the speaker, the 
 hearer, before the meaning can become clear ; and 
 it is the failure to do this which has caused many to 
 find Browning obscure. , ur^ r • 
 
 For example, observe Browning s Conlessions. 
 
 CONFESSIONS 
 
 What is lie buzzing in my ears ? 
 
 "Now that I come to die. 
 Do I view the world as a vale of tears ? " 
 
 Ah, reverend sir, not I ! 
 
 What I viewed there once, what I view again 
 
 Where the physic bottles stand 
 On the table's edge, — - is a suburb lane. 
 
 With a wall to my bedside hand. 
 
8 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, 
 
 From a house you could descry 
 O'er the garden- wall: is the curtain blue 
 
 Or green to a healthy eye ? 
 
 To mine, it serves for the old June weather 
 
 Blue above lane and wall; 
 And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether" 
 
 Is the house o'er-topping all. 
 
 At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper. 
 
 There watched for me, one June, 
 A girl : I know, sir, it 's improper. 
 
 My poor mind 's out of tune. 
 
 Only, there was a way . . . you crept 
 
 Close by the side, to dodge 
 Eyes in the house, two eyes except: 
 
 They styled their house "The Lodge." 
 
 What right had a lounger up their lane ? 
 
 But, by creeping very close. 
 With the good wall's help, — their eyes might strain 
 
 And stretch themselves to Oes, 
 
 Yet never catch her and me together, 
 
 As she left the attic, there. 
 By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether," 
 
 And stole from stair to stair. 
 
 And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, 
 
 We loved, sir — used to meet : 
 How sad and bad and mad it was — 
 
 But then, how it was sweet ! 
 
 Here, evidently, the speaker, who has "come to 
 die," has been aroused by some "reverend sir," 
 who has been expostulating with him and uttering 
 conventional phrases about the vanity of human 
 hfe. Such superficial pessimism awakens protest, 
 and the dying man remonstrates in the words of the 
 poem. 
 
A New Literary Form 9 
 
 The speaker is apparently in bed and hardly 
 beheves himself fully possessed of his senses. 
 He even asks if the curtain is "green or blue to a 
 healthy eye," as if he feared to trust his judgment, 
 lest it be perverted by disease. 
 
 An abrupt beginning is very characteristic of 
 a monologue, and when given properly, the first 
 words arrest attention and suggest the situation. 
 
 After the speaker's bewildered repetition of the 
 visitor's words and his blunt answer ''not I," which 
 says such views are not his own, he talks of his 
 "bedside hand," turns a row of bottles into a street, 
 and tells of the sweetest experience of his life. He 
 refuses to say that it was not sweet; he will not 
 allow an abnormal condition such as his sickness 
 to determine his views of life. The result is an in- 
 trospection of the deeper hope found in the heart 
 of man. 
 
 The poem is not an essay or a sermon, it is not the 
 lyric expression of a mood ; it portrays the conflict 
 of individual with individual and reveals the deep- 
 est motives of a character. It is not a dialogue, but 
 only one end of a conversation, and for this reason 
 it more intensely and definitely focuses attention. 
 We see deeper into the speaker's spirit and view 
 of life, while we recognize the superficiality of 
 the creed of his visitor. The monologue thus is 
 dramatic. It interprets human experience and 
 character. 
 
 No one who intelligently reads Browning can 
 fail to realize that he was a dramatic poet ; in fact 
 he w^as the first, if not the only, English dramatic 
 poet of the nineteenth century. With his deep in- 
 sight into the life of his age, as well as his grasp of 
 character, he was the one master whose writing 
 
lo Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 was needed for the drama of that century ; yet he 
 early came into conflict with the modern stage and 
 ceased to write plays before he had mastered the 
 play as a work of art. 
 
 He was, however, by nature so dramatic in his 
 point of view that he could never be anything else 
 than a dramatic poet. Hence, he was led to in- 
 vent, or adopt, a dramatic form different from the 
 play. From the midst of the conflict between poet 
 and stage, between writer and stage artist, the 
 monologue was evolved, or at least recognized and 
 completed as an objective dramatic form. 
 
 Any study of the monologue must thus centre 
 attention upon Browning. As Shakespeare reigns 
 the supreme master of the play, so Browning has 
 no peer in the monologue. Others have followed 
 him in its use, but his monologues remain the most 
 numerous, varied, and expressive. 
 
 The development of the monologue, in some 
 sense, is connected with the struggles of the modern 
 stage to express the conditions of modern life. A 
 great change has taken place in human experience. 
 In modern civilization the conflicts and complex 
 struggles of human character are usually hidden. 
 Men and women now conceal their emotions. 
 Self-control and repression form a part of the civi- 
 lized ideal. Men no longer shed tears in public as 
 did Homer's heroes. In our day, a man who is 
 injured does not avenge himself, or if he does he 
 rarely retains the sympathy of his fellow-men. On 
 the contrary, the person wronged now turns over 
 his wronger to the law ; conflicts of man with man 
 are fought out in the courts, and a w^ell- ordered gov- 
 ernment inflicts punishment and rights wrongs. 
 
 All modern life and experience have become more 
 
A New Literary Form ii 
 
 subjective; hence, it is natural that dramatic art 
 should change its form. Let no one suppose, how- 
 ever, that this change marks the death of dramatic 
 representation. Dramatic art in some shape is nec- 
 essary as a means of expression in every age. It 
 has become more subtle and suggestive, but it is 
 none the less dramatic. 
 
 An important phase of the changes in the char- 
 acter of dramatic art is the recognition of the 
 monologue. The adoption of this form shows 
 the tendency of dramatic art to adapt itself to 
 modern times. 
 
 The dramatic monologue, however, did not arise 
 in opposition to the play, but as a new and parallel 
 aspect of dramatic art. It has not the same theme 
 as the play, does not deal with the expression of 
 human life in movement or the complex struggles 
 of human beings with each other, but it reveals the 
 struggle in the depths of the soul. It exhibits the 
 dramatic attitude of mind or the point of view. It is 
 more subjective, more intense, and also more sug- 
 gestive than the play. It reveals motives and char- 
 acter by a flash to an awakened imagination. 
 
 However this new dramatic form may be ex- 
 plained, whatever may be its character, there is 
 hardly a book of poetry that has appeared in re- 
 cent years that does not contain examples. Many 
 popular writers, it may be unconsciously, employ 
 this form almost to the exclusion of all others. The 
 name itself occurs rarely in Enghsh books ; but the 
 name is nothing, — the monologue is there. 
 
 The presence of the form of the monologue before 
 its full recognition is a proof that it is natural and 
 important. Forms of art are not invented ; they 
 are rather discovered. They are direct languages ; 
 
12 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 each expresses something no other can say. If the 
 monologue is a distinct literary form, then it pos- 
 sesses certain possibilities in expressing the human 
 spirit which are peculiar to itself. It must say 
 something that nothing else can say so well. Its 
 use by Browning, and the greater and greater fre- 
 quency of its adoption among recent writers, seems 
 to prove the necessity of a careful study of its pecu- 
 liarities, possibilities, and rendition. 
 
 II. THE SPEAKER 
 
 What is there peculiar about the monologue ? 
 Can its nature or structure be so explained that a 
 seemingly difficult poem, such as a monologue by 
 Browning, may be made clear and forcible ? 
 
 In the first place, one should note that the mono- 
 logue gets its unity from the character of the 
 speaker. It is not merely an impersonal thought, 
 but the expression of one individual to another. It 
 was Hegel, I think, who said that all art implies the 
 expression of a truth, of a thought or feehng, to a 
 person. 
 
 In nature we find everywhere a spontaneous un- 
 folding, as in the blooming of a flower. There is 
 no direct presentation of a truth to the apprehen- 
 sion of some particular mind ; no modification 
 of it by the character, the prejudice, or the feehng 
 of the speaker. The lily unfolds its loveliness, but 
 does not adapt the time or the direction of its bloom- 
 ing to dominate the attention of some indifferent 
 observer, or express its message so definitely and 
 pointedly as to be more easily understood. 
 
The Speaker 13 
 
 Man, however, rarely, if ever, expresses a truth 
 without a personal coloring due to his own char- 
 acter and the character of the listener. The same 
 truth uttered by different persons appears differ- 
 ent. Occasionally a little child, or a man with a 
 childlike nature, may think in a blind, natural way 
 without adapting truth to other minds ; but such 
 direct, spontaneous, and truthful expression is ex- 
 tremely rare. It is one of the most important func- 
 tions of art to teach us the fact that there is always 
 "an intervention of personality," which needs to be 
 realized in its specific interpretation. 
 
 The monologue is a study of the effect of mind 
 upon mind, of the adaptation of the ideas of one 
 individual to another, and of the revelation this 
 makes of the characters of speaker and listener. 
 
 The nature of the monologue will be best under- 
 stood by comparing it with some of the literary 
 forms which it resembles, or with which it is often 
 unconsciously confused. 
 
 On account of the fact that there is but one 
 speaker, it has been confused with oratory. A 
 monologue is often conceived as a kind of stilted 
 conversational oration ; and the word monologue 
 is apt to call to mind some talker, like Coleridge, 
 who monopolized the whole conversation. 
 
 A monologue, however, is not a speech. An 
 oration is the presentation of truth to an audience 
 by a personality. There is some purpose at stake ; 
 the speaker must strengthen convictions and cause 
 decisions on some point at issue. But a mono- 
 logue is not an address to an audience; it is a 
 study of character, of the processes of thinking in 
 one individual as moulded by the presence of some 
 other personality. Its theme is not merely the 
 
14 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 thought uttered, but primarily the character of 
 the speaker, who consciously or unconsciously 
 unfolds himself. 
 
 Again, the monologue has been confused with 
 the lyric poem. Browning called one of his vol- 
 umes "Dramatic Lyrics"; another, "Dramatic 
 Idyls"; and another, "Dramatic Romances and 
 Lyrics." Though many monologues are lyric in 
 spirit, they are more frequently dramatic. 
 
 A lyric is the utterance of an individual intensely 
 realizing a specific situation, and implies deep feel- 
 ing. But the monologue may or may not be emo- 
 tional. No doubt it may result from as intense a 
 realization as the lyric poem. It resembles a lyric 
 in being simple and in being usually short, but is 
 unHke it in that its theme is chiefly dramatic, its 
 interest indirect, and that it lays bare to a far 
 greater degree human motives in certain situa- 
 tions and under the ruling forces of a life. 
 
 The monologue is like a lyric also in that it must 
 be recognized as a complete whole. Each clause 
 must be understood in relation to others as a part 
 of the whole. An essay can be understood sen- 
 tence after sentence. A story gives a sequence of 
 events for their own sake. A discussion may con- 
 sist of a mere recital or succession of facts. In all 
 these the whole is built up part by part. But the 
 monologue differs from all these in that the whole 
 must be felt from the beginning. 
 
 Further, in the monologue ideas are not given 
 directly, as in the story or essay, but usually the 
 more important points are suggested indirectly. 
 The attention of the reader or hearer is focussed 
 upon a hving human being. What is said is not 
 necessarily a universal and impersonal truth, it is 
 
The Speaker 15 
 
 the opinion of a certain type of man. We judge 
 what is said by the character of the speaker, by the 
 person to whom he speaks, and by the occasion. 
 
 Mr. Furnivall may prefer to have every man 
 speak directly from the shoulder and may WTite 
 slightingly of such an indirect way of stating a 
 truth as we find in the monologue. We may all 
 prefer, or think we do, the direct way of speaking, 
 — a sermon or lecture, for example, — and dishke 
 what Edmund Spenser called a "dark conceit"; 
 but soon or late we shall agree with Spenser, the 
 master of allegory, that the artistic method is 
 "more interesting," and that example is better 
 than precept. 
 
 The monologue is one of the examples of the 
 indirect method common to all art — a method 
 which is necessary on account of the peculiarities 
 of human nature. One person finds it difficult to 
 explain a truth directly to another. Nine- tenths 
 of every picture is the product, not of perception, 
 but of apperception. Hence, without the aid of 
 art, we express in words only half truths. The 
 monologue makes human expression more ade- 
 quate. It is hke a nut; the shell must be pene- 
 trated before we can find the kernel. The real 
 truth of the monologue comes only after compre- 
 hension of the whole. It reserves its truth until 
 the thought has slowly grown in the mind of the 
 hearer. It holds back something until all parts 
 are co-ordinated and "does the thing shall breed 
 the thought." Accordingly, there are many things 
 to settle in a monologue before the truth it con- 
 tains can possibly be realized. 
 
 In the first place, we must decide who the speaker 
 is, what is his character, and the specific attitude 
 
1 6 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 of his mind. It is not merely the thought uttered 
 that makes the impression. As a picture is some- 
 thing between a thought and a thing, not an idea 
 on the one hand nor an object on the other, but a 
 union of the two, so the monologue unites a truth 
 or idea with the personality that utters it. An 
 idea, a fact, may be valuable, but it becomes clear 
 and impressive to some human consciousness only 
 by being united with a human soul, and stated 
 from one point of view and with the force of an 
 individual life. 
 
 The story of Count Gismond, for example, is 
 told by the woman he saved from disgrace, who 
 loves him of all men, and who is now his wife. We 
 feel the whole story colored by her gratitude, de- 
 votion, and tenderness. The reader must conceive 
 the character of the speaker, and enter into the 
 depths of her motives, before understanding the 
 thought; but after he has done so, he receives a 
 clearer and more forcible impression than is other- 
 wise possible. 
 
 The stories of Sam Lawson by Mrs. Harriet 
 Beecher Stowe are essentially monologues. In 
 Professor Churchill's rendering of them the pe- 
 culiarities of this Yankee were truly shown to be 
 the chief centre of interest. As we reahze the 
 spirit of these stories, we easily imagine ourselves 
 on the "shady side of a blueberry pasture," listen- 
 ing to Sam talking to a group of boys, or possibly to 
 only one boy, and our interest centres in the reve- 
 lation of the working of his mind. His repose, his 
 indifference to work, his insight into human nature, 
 his quaint humor and sympathy, are the chief 
 causes of the pleasure given by these stories. 
 
 Possibly the letter is the hterary form nearest to 
 
The Speaker 17 
 
 the monologue. We can easily see why. A good 
 letter writer is dominated by his attention to one 
 individual. The pecuhar character of that indi- 
 vidual is ever before him. The intimacy and 
 abandon of the writer in pouring out his deepest 
 thoughts is due to the sympathetic, confidential, 
 conversational attitude of one human being to 
 another. 
 
 "Blessed be letters !" said Donald G. Mitchell. 
 "They are the monitors, they are also the com- 
 forters, they are the only true heart- talkers." 
 There is, however, a great difference between 
 letters and conversation. In conversation "your 
 truest thought is modified during its utterance by 
 a look, a sign, a smile, or a sneer. It is not individ- 
 ual ; it is not integral ; it is social, and marks half 
 of you and half of others. It bends, it sways, it 
 multiplies, it retires, it advances, as the talk of 
 others presses, relaxes, or quickens." 
 
 This effect of others upon the speaker is espe- 
 cially expressed in the monologue, particularly in 
 examples of a popular and humorous character. 
 
 While the monologue is the accentuation of 
 some specific attitude of one human being as modi- 
 fied by contact with another, in a letter the attitude 
 toward the other person is usually prolonged, due 
 to past relationship; is more subjective, and ex- 
 pressed without any change caused by the presence 
 of the person addressed. In some very animated 
 letters, however, the attitude of the future reader's 
 mind is anticipated or realized by the writer, and 
 there is more or less of an approximation to the 
 monologue. At any rate, this realization of what 
 the other will think colors the composition. Letters 
 are animated in proportion as they possess this 
 
 2 
 
1 8 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 dramatic character, and are at times practically 
 monologues. 
 
 The skilful writer of a monologue omits obscure 
 references in words to the sneers and looks of the 
 hearer, except those which directly change the 
 current of the speaker's thought. All must centre 
 in the impression made upon the character speak- 
 ing. In conversation, at times, a talker becomes 
 more or less obhvious of his companion, yet the 
 presence of his listener all the time affects the atti- 
 tude of his mind. 
 
 If we render a letter artistically to a company of 
 people, we necessarily turn it into a monologue. 
 We read the letter with the person in our mind, 
 as a listener, to whom it is directed. We do not 
 give its deeper ideas and personal or dramatic sug- 
 gestions to a company as a speech. 
 
 It is not surprising to find many monologues in 
 epistolary form. Browning's "Cleon," in which 
 is so truly presented the spirit of the Greeks, 
 — to whom Paul spoke and wrote and among 
 whom he worked, — is a letter written by Cleon, a 
 Greek poet, to King Protus, his friend. Protus has 
 written to Cleon concerning the opinions held by 
 one Paulus, a rumor of whose preaching of the 
 doctrine of immortaUty has reached him. *'An 
 epistle containing the strange Medical Experi- 
 ments of Karshish, the Arab Physician," is a letter 
 from Karshish to his old teacher describing the 
 strange case of Lazarus with an account of an in- 
 terview with him after he had risen from the dead. 
 
 This poem illustrates also the fact that a mono- 
 logue may not be on the personal plane. Brown- 
 ing is seemingly the only writer in English who has 
 been able to present a character completely nega- 
 
The Speaker 19 
 
 live, or one without personal relations to the events. 
 The character in this poem has a purely scientific 
 attribute of mind and looks upon this event from 
 a purely neutral point of view. It is only to him a 
 curious case. By this method, the deeper signifi- 
 cance may be given to the events while at the same 
 time accentuating a pecuhar type of mind, or it 
 may be a rare moment in the life of nearly every 
 individual. This poem is accordingly very inter- 
 esting from a psychological point of view. It illus- 
 trates the scientific temper. The French have 
 many examples of such writers, but Browning gives 
 the best, — in fact almost the only illustration in 
 English hterature. 
 
 "The Biglow Papers," by Lowell, though in the 
 form of letters, are really dramatic monologues. 
 Each character is made to speak dramatically or in 
 his own peculiar way. The chief interest of every 
 one of these poems centres in the character speak- 
 ing. The mental action is sustained consistently; 
 the dramatic completeness, the definite point of 
 view, and the dialect, enable us to picture the pe- 
 culiar characters who think and feel, live and move, 
 talk and act for our enjoyment. 
 
 The monologue, accordingly, is nearer to the 
 dialogue than to a letter. The differences between 
 the dialogue and the monologue are the chief dif- 
 ferences between the monologue and the play. In 
 a dialogue there is a constant and immediate effect 
 of another personality upon the speaker. The 
 same is true of the monologue. The speaker of the 
 monologue must accentuate the effect of his inter- 
 locutor as flexibly and freely as in the case of the 
 dialogue. In the dialogue, however, the speaker 
 and the listener change places ; the monologue has 
 
20 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 but one speaker, and can only suggest the views or 
 character of a listener by revealing some impres- 
 sion produced upon the speaker while in the act of 
 speaking. This makes pauses and expressive 
 modulations of the voice even more necessary in 
 the monologue than in the dialogue. 
 
 Yet the mere fact that a poem or literary work 
 has but one speaker does not make it a monologue ; 
 it may be a speech. Burns's "For A' That and A' 
 That" is a speech. Matthew Arnold may not be 
 quite fair when he says that it is mere preaching, 
 that Burns was not sincere, and that we find the 
 real Burns in "The Jolly Beggars." Still, all must 
 feel in reading it that Burns is exhorting others 
 and railing a little at the world, but not reveahng 
 a character unconsciously or indirectly, through 
 contact with either a man of another type, or 
 through the exigencies of a given situation. Burns 
 is boasting a little and asserting his independence. 
 
 The monologue demands not only a speaker, 
 but a speaker in such a situation as will cause him 
 to reveal himself unconsciously and indirectly, and 
 such a moment as will lay bare his deepest motives. 
 He must speak also in a natural, lifelike way. 
 There must be no suggestion of a platform, no 
 conscious presentation of truth for a definite end, 
 as with the orator. 
 
 It is a peculiar fact that the most diflScult of all 
 things is to tell the truth. Every man "knows a 
 good many things that are not so." For every 
 aflGirmation of importance, we demand witnesses. 
 Whenever a man speaks, we look into his character, 
 into the living, natural languages which are uncon- 
 scious witnesses of the depth of his earnestness and 
 sincerity. Even in every-day life men judge of 
 
The Speaker 21 
 
 truth by character. What a man is, always colors, 
 if it does not determine, what he says. But the 
 essence of the monologue is to bring what a man 
 says and what he is into harmony. 
 
 The interpreter of a monologue must be true to 
 the character of the speaker. He must faithfully 
 portray, not his own, but the attitude and bearing, 
 feelings and impression, of this character. Every 
 normal person would greatly admire the beauties 
 of "the villa," but the "Italian person of qual- 
 ity," in Browning's monologue, feels for it great 
 contempt. 
 
 In Browning's "Youth and Art" we feel con- 
 tinually the point of view, the feeling, and the 
 character of the speaker. 
 
 YOUTH AND ART 
 
 It once might have been, once only: 
 
 We lodged in a street together, 
 You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, 
 
 I, a lone she-bird of his feather. 
 
 Your trade was with sticks and clay. 
 
 You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, 
 
 Then laughed, "They will see, some day, 
 Smith made, and Gibson demolished." 
 
 My business was song, song, song; 
 
 I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, 
 "Kate Brown 's on the boards ere long, 
 
 And Grisi's existence imbittered!" 
 
 I earned no more by a warble 
 
 Than you by a sketch in plaster: 
 You wanted a piece of marble, 
 
 I needed a music-master. 
 
22 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 We studied hard in our styles, 
 
 Chipped each at a crust Hke Hindoos, 
 
 For air, looked out on the tiles, 
 
 For fun, watched each other's windows. 
 
 You lounged, like a boy of the South, 
 
 Cap and blouse — nay, a bit of beard, too ; 
 
 Or you got it, rubbing your mouth 
 With fingers the clay adhered to. 
 
 And I — soon managed to find 
 
 Weak points in the flower-fence facing, 
 
 Was forced to put up a blind 
 And be safe in my corset-lacing. 
 
 No harm ! It was not my fault 
 
 If you never turned your eye's tail up 
 
 As I shook upon E in alt., 
 
 Or ran the chromatic scale up; 
 
 For spring bade the sparrows pair, 
 And the boys and girls gave guesses. 
 
 And stalls in our street looked rare 
 With bulrush and water-cresses. ' 
 
 Why did not you pinch a flower 
 
 In a pellet of clay and fling it.'* 
 Why did not I put a power 
 
 Of thanks in a look, or sing it ? 
 
 1 did look, sharp as a lynx 
 
 (And yet the memory rankles) 
 When models arrived, some minx 
 
 Tripped up stairs, she and her ankles. 
 
 But I think I gave you as good ! 
 
 "That foreign fellow — who can know 
 How she pays, in a playful mood, 
 
 For his tuning her that piano ? " 
 
 Could you say so, and never say, 
 
 "Suppose we join hands and fortunes. 
 
 And I fetch her from over the way. 
 
 Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes ? 
 
The Speaker 23 
 
 No, no; you would not be rash, 
 
 Nor I rasher and something over: 
 You 've to settle yet Gibson's hash. 
 
 And Grisi yet lives in clover. 
 
 But you meet the Prince at the Board. 
 
 I 'm queen myself at beds-pares, 
 I 've married a rich old lord. 
 
 And you 're dubbed knight and an R. A. 
 
 Each life 's unfulfilled, you see ; 
 
 It hangs still patchy and scrappy; 
 We have not sighed deep, laughed free. 
 
 Starved, feasted, despaired, — been happy. 
 
 And nobody calls you a dunce. 
 
 And people suppose me clever; 
 This could but have happened once, 
 
 And we missed it, lost it forever. 
 
 The theme is the dream and experience of two 
 lovers. The speaker is married to a rich old lord, 
 and her lover of other days, a sculptor, is "dubbed 
 knight and an R. A." Stirred by her youthful 
 dreams, or it may be by the meeting of her lover in 
 society, or possibly in imagination, — as a queen of 
 ''bals- pares'' would hardly talk to a "knight and 
 an R. A." in this frank manner, — it is the woman 
 who breaks forth suddenly with the dream of her 
 old love — 
 
 *'It once might have been, once only," — 
 
 and relates the story of the days when they were 
 both young students, she of singing and he of sculp- 
 ture, and describes, or lightly caricatures, their ex- 
 perience. Is her laughter, as she goes on in such a 
 playful mood describing the different events of 
 their lives, an endeavor to conceal a hidden pain ? 
 Has she grown worldly minded, sneering at every 
 
24 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 youthful dream, even her own, or is she awakening 
 from this worldly point of view to a realization at 
 last of "life unfulfilled"? 
 
 Browning, instead of an abstract discussion, 
 presents in an artistic form an important truth, 
 that he who lives for the world does not live at all. 
 By introducing this woman to us in a serious atti- 
 tude of mind, reflecting on the one hand a worldly 
 mood, on the other the deep, abiding love of a true 
 woman, he makes the desired impression. The last 
 line throbs with deep emotion, and we feel how 
 slowly and sadly she would acknowledge the failure 
 of life: 
 
 "And we missed it, lost it forever." 
 
 Browning's "Caliban upon Setebos " furnishes a 
 forcible illustration of the importance of the speaker 
 and the necessity of preserving his character and 
 point of view in the monologue. "'Will sprawl" 
 begins a long parenthesis which implies the first 
 intention of Caliban to lie flat in "the pit's much 
 mire." He describes definitely the position he 
 likes "in the cool slush." The words express Cali- 
 ban's feelings at his noonday rest and the position 
 he takes for enjoyment. He has not yet risen to the 
 dignity of the consciousness of the ego. He does 
 not use the pronoun "I" or the possessive "my." 
 His verbs are impersonal, — "'Will sprawl," not "I 
 will sprawl," — and he 
 
 "Talks to his own self, howe'er he please. 
 Touching that other whom his dam called God." 
 
 He lies down in this position to have a good "think " 
 regarding his "dam's God, Setebos." Notice the 
 continual recurrence of the impersonal "thinketh" 
 
The Speaker 25 
 
 without any subject. Here we have a most humor- 
 ous but really profound meditation of such a crea- 
 ture with all the elements of "natural theology in 
 the island." The subheading before the mono- 
 logue, "Thou thoughtest that I was altogether 
 such an one as thyself," indicates the current of 
 Browning's ideas. 
 
 When we have once pictured Caliban definitely 
 in our minds with his "saith" and "thinketh," we 
 perceive the analogy which he establishes after the 
 manner of men between his own low nature and 
 that of deity. 
 
 To read such a work without a definite concep- 
 tion of the character talking, makes utter nonsense 
 of the reading. Every sentiment and feeling in the 
 poem regarding God is dramatic. However deep 
 or profound the lesson conveyed, it is entirely 
 indirect. 
 
 How different is the story of the glove and King 
 Francis, as treated by Leigh Hunt, from its inter- 
 pretation by Browning ! Leigh Hunt centres every- 
 thing in the sequence of events and the simple 
 statement of facts. 
 
 "King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, 
 And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court." 
 
 But Browning ! He chooses a distinct character, 
 Peter Ronsard, a poet, to tell the story, and adopts 
 a totally different point of view, centring all in 
 the speaker's justification of the woman who threw 
 the glove. Practically the same facts are told; 
 even the King's words are almost identical with 
 those given by Hunt: 
 
 " 'T was mere vanity, 
 Not loVe, set that task to humanity ! " 
 
26 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 and he gives the ordinary point of view : 
 
 "Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing 
 From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing." 
 
 But human character and motive is given a deeper 
 interpretation and the poet does not accept their 
 views : 
 
 "Not so, I; for I caught the expression 
 In her brow's undisturbed self-possession 
 Amid the court's scoffing and merriment; — 
 As if from no pleasing experiment, 
 She rose, yet of pain not much heedful 
 So long as the process was needful." 
 
 The poet followed her and asked what it all meant, 
 and if she did not wish to recall her rash deed. 
 
 "For I, so I spoke, am a poet, 
 Human nature, — behooves that I know it ! " 
 
 So he tells you she explained that he had vowed 
 and boasted what he would do, and she felt that she 
 would put him to the test. Browning represents 
 her as rejecting Delorge, whose admiration was 
 shown by this incident to be superficial, and as 
 marrying a humble but true-hearted lover. 
 
 "The Ring and the Book" illustrates possibly 
 more amply than any other poem the peculiar 
 dramatic force of the monologue. 
 
 The story, out of which is built a poem twice as 
 long as ** Paradise Lost," can be told in a few words. 
 Guido, a nobleman of Arezzo, poor, but of noble 
 family, has sought advancement at the Papal 
 Court. Embittered by failure, he resolves to es- 
 tablish himself by marriage with an heiress, and 
 makes an offer for Pompilia, an innocent girl of 
 j sixteen, the only child of parents supposed to be 
 
The Speaker 27 
 
 wealthy. The father, Pietro, refuses the offer, but 
 the mother arranges a secret marriage, and Pietro 
 accepts the situation. The old couple put all their 
 property into the hands of the son-in-law and go 
 with him to Arezzo. The marriage proves un- 
 happy, and Guido robs and persecutes the old 
 people until they return poor to Rome. The 
 mother then makes the unexpected revelation that 
 PompiUa is not her child. She had bought her, 
 and Pietro and the world believe that she was her 
 own. On this account they seek to recover Pom- 
 pilia's dowry. Pompilia suffers outrageous treat- 
 ment from her husband, who wishes to be rid of her 
 and yet keep her property, and lays all kinds of 
 snares in the endeavor to drive her away. She at 
 length flees, and is aided in so doing by a noble- 
 hearted priest. On the road they are overtaken 
 by the husband, who starts proceedings for a 
 divorce at Rome. The divorce is refused, but the 
 wife is placed in mild imprisonment, though later 
 she is allowed to return to her so-called parents, in 
 whose home she gives birth to a son. Guido now 
 tries to get possession of the child, as, by this means 
 he secures all rights to the property. With some 
 hirelings he goes to the lonely house, and murders 
 Pompiha and her parents. Pompilia does not die 
 immediately, but lives to give her testimony against 
 her husband. Guido flees, is arrested on Roman 
 territory, and is tried and condemned to death. An 
 appeal is made to the Pope, who confirms the 
 sentence. 
 
 This story is told ten or twelve times, all interest 
 centring in the characters of the speakers, in their 
 points of view and attitudes of mind. More fully, 
 perhaps, than any other poem, "The Ring and the 
 
28 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Book" shows that every one in relating the simplest 
 events or facts gives a coloring to the truth of his 
 character. 
 
 In Book I Browning speaks in his own char- 
 acter, and states the facts and how the story 
 came into his hands. In Book II, called "Half- 
 Rome," a Roman, more or less in sympathy with 
 the husband, tells the story. In Book III, styled 
 "The Other Half-Rome," one in sympathy with 
 the wife tells the story. In Book IV, called "Ter- 
 tium Quid," a society gentleman, who prides him- 
 self on his critical acumen, tells the story in a 
 drawing-room. Each speaker in these monologues 
 has a character of his own, and the facts are 
 strongly colored according to his nature and point 
 of view. In Book V Guido makes his defence be- 
 fore the judges. He is a criminal defending him- 
 self, and puts facts in such a way as to justify his 
 actions. In Book VI the priest who assisted Pom- 
 pilia to escape passionately proclaims the lofty 
 motives which actuated Pompilia and himself. In 
 Book VII Pompiha, on her deathbed, gives her 
 testimony, telling the story with intense pathos. 
 In Book VIII a lawyer, with all the ingenuity of 
 his profession, speaks in defence of Guido, but with- 
 out touching upon the merits of the case. In Book 
 IX Pompilia's advocate, endeavoring to display his 
 fine cultured style, gives a legal justification of 
 her course. In Book X the Pope decides against 
 Guido, and gives the reasons for this decision. 
 Book XI is Guido's last confession as a condemned 
 man ; here his character is still more definitely un- 
 folded. He tries to bribe his guards ; though still 
 defiant, he shows his base, cowardly nature at the 
 close, and ends his final weak and chaotic appeal 
 
The Speaker 29 
 
 by calling on Pompilia, thus giving the highest 
 testimony possible to the purity and sweetness of 
 the woman he murdered: 
 
 "Don't open ! Hold me from them ! I am yours, 
 I am the Granduke's — no, I am the Pope 's ! 
 Abate, — Cardinal, — Christ, — Maria, — God, . . . 
 Pompilia, will you let them murder me ? " 
 
 In his defence he was conceahng his real deeds 
 and character, and justifying himself. In this book 
 he reveals himself with great frankness. 
 
 In Book XII the case is given as it fades into 
 history, and the poem closes with a lesson regarding 
 the function or necessity of art in telling truth. 
 
 "The Ring and the Book "affords perhaps the 
 highest example of the value of the monologue as a 
 form of art. Men who have only one point of view 
 are always "cranks," — able, that is, to turn only 
 one way. A preacher who can appreciate only the 
 point of view of his own denomination will never 
 get very near the truth. The statesman who de- 
 clares "there is but one side to a question" may 
 sometime by his narrowness assist in plunging his 
 country into a great war. No man can help his 
 fellows if unable to see things from their point of 
 view. "The Ring and the Book" shows every 
 speaker coloring the truth unconsciously by his 
 own character, and Browning, by putting the same 
 facts in the mouths of different persons, enables us 
 to discover the personal element. 
 
 This is the specific function of the monologue. 
 It artistically interprets truth by interpreting the 
 soul that realizes it. This excites interest in the 
 speaker and shows its dramatic character. 
 
 Browning, by its aid, interprets peculiarities of 
 
30 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 human nature before unnoticed. Dramatic in- 
 stinct is given a new hterary form and expression. 
 Human nature receives a profounder interpreta- 
 tion. We are made more teachable and sym- 
 pathetic. The monologue exhibits one person 
 drawing quick conclusions, another meeting doubt 
 with counter- doubt, or still another calmly weighing 
 evidences ; it occupies many points of view, thus 
 giving a clearer ^perception of truth through the 
 mirror of human character. 
 
 III. THE HEARER 
 
 To comprehend the spirit of the monologue de- 
 mands a clear conception, not only of the character 
 of the speaker, but also of the person addressed. 
 The hearer is often of as great importance to the 
 meaning of a monologue as is the person speaking. 
 
 It is a common blunder to consider dramatic in- 
 stinct as concerned only with a speaker. Nearly 
 every one regards it as the ability to " act a char- 
 acter," to imitate the action or the speech of some 
 particular individual. But this conception is far 
 too narrow. The dramatic instinct is primarily 
 concerned with insight into character, with prob- 
 lems of imagination, and with sympathy. By it 
 we reahze another's point of view or attitude of 
 mind towards a truth or situation, and identify 
 ourselves sympathetically with character. 
 
 Dramatic instinct is necessary to all human en- 
 deavor. It is as necessary for the orator as it is for 
 the actor. While it is true that the speaker must 
 be himself and must succeed by the vigor of his 
 
The Hearer 31 
 
 own personality, and that the actor must succeed 
 through "fidehty of portraiture," still the orator 
 must be able not only to say the right word, but to 
 know when he says it, and this ability results only 
 from dramatic instinct. The actor needs more of 
 the personating instinct or insight into motives of 
 character; the speaker, more insight into the con- 
 ditions of human thought and feeling. 
 
 While one function of dramatic instinct is the 
 ability to identify one's self with another, it is much 
 easier to identify one's self with the speaker than 
 with the listener. Even on the stage the most dif- 
 ficult task for the actor is to listen in character; 
 that is, to receive impressions from the standpoint 
 of the character he is representing. 
 
 Possibly the fundamental element in dramatic 
 instinct is the ability to occupy a point of view, to 
 see a truth as another sees it. This shows why 
 dramatic instinct is the foundation of success. It 
 enables a teacher to know whether his student is 
 at the right point of view to apprehend a truth, or 
 in the proper attitude of mind towards a subject. 
 It tells him when he has made a truth understood. 
 It gives the speaker power to adapt and to illustrate 
 his truth to others, and to see things from his 
 hearers' point of view. It gives the writer power 
 to impress his reader. Even the business man 
 must intuitively perceive the point of view and the 
 mental attitude of those with whom he deals. 
 
 Dramatic instinct as appHed to listening on the 
 stage, and everywhere, is apt to be overlooked. It 
 is comparatively easy when quoting some one to 
 stand at his point of view and to imitate his man- 
 ner, or to contrast the differences between a number 
 of speakers ; but a higher type of dramatic power 
 
32 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 is exhibited in the abihty to put ourselves in the 
 place and receive the impressions of some specific 
 type of listener. 
 
 The speeches of different characters are given 
 formally and successively in a drama. Hence, the 
 writer of a play, or the actor, is apt to centre at- 
 tention, when speaking, upon the character, with- 
 out reference to the shape his thought takes from 
 what the other character has said, and especially 
 from those attitudes or actions of the other charac- 
 ter which are not revealed by words. The same is 
 true m the novel, and even in epic poetry. True 
 dramatic instinct in any form demands that the 
 speaker show not only his own thought and mo- 
 tive by his words, but that of the character he is 
 portraying, and the influence produced upon him 
 at the instant by the thought and character of the 
 listener. 
 
 While the dialogue is not the only form of dra- 
 matic art, still its study is required *^f or the under- 
 standing of the monologue, or almost any aspect of 
 dramatic expression. The very name "dialogue" 
 implies a listener and a speaker who are continually 
 changing places. The listener indicates by his face 
 and by actions of the body his impression, his at- 
 tention, the effect upon him of the words of the 
 speaker, his objection or approval. Thus he influ- 
 ences the speaker in shaping his ideas and choosing 
 his words. 
 
 In the monologue the speaker must suggest the 
 character of both speaker and listener and interpret 
 the relation of one human being to another. He 
 must show, as he speaks, the impression he receives 
 from the manner in which his listener is affected 
 by what he is saying. A public reader, or imper- 
 
The Hearer 33 
 
 senator, of all the characters of a play must per- 
 form a similar feat ; he must represent each char- 
 acter not only as speaker, but show that he has ]ust 
 been a listener and received an impression or 
 stimulus from another ; otherwise he cannot sug- 
 gest any true dramatic action. 
 
 In the monologue, as in all true dramatic repre- 
 sentation, the listener as well as the speaker niust 
 be reahzed as continuously living and thinking. 
 The listener, though he utters not a word, must be 
 conceived from the effect he makes upon the 
 speaker, in order to perceive the argument as well 
 as the situation and point of view. 
 
 The necessity of realizing a listener is one ot the 
 most important points to be noted in the study ot 
 the monologue. Take, as an illustration, Brown- 
 ing's "Incident of the French Camp." 
 
 INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 
 
 You know, we French stormed Ratisbon : 
 
 A mile or so away, 
 On a little mound, Napoleon 
 
 Stood on our storming day ; 
 With neck out-thrust, you fancy how. 
 
 Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
 As if to balance the prone brow 
 
 Oppressive with its mind. 
 
 Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans 
 
 That soar, to earth may fall, 
 Let once my army-leader Lannes 
 
 Waver at yonder wall," — 
 Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew 
 
 A rider, bound on bound 
 Full galloping ; nor bridle drew 
 
 Until he reached the mound. 
 3 
 
34 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Then off there flung in smiling joy, , 
 
 And held himself erect 
 By just his horse's mane, a boy: 
 
 You hardly could suspect — 
 (So tight he kept his lips compressed, 
 
 Scarce any blood came through) 
 You looked twice ere you saw his breast 
 
 Was all but shot in two. 
 
 "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace 
 
 We 've got you Ratisbon ! 
 The Marshal 's in the market-place, 
 
 And you '11 be there anon 
 To see your flag-bird flap his wings 
 
 Where I, to heart's desire, 
 Perched him ! " The Chief's eye flashed; his plans 
 
 Soared up again like fire. 
 
 The Chief's eye flashed ; but presently 
 
 Softened itself, as sheathes 
 A film the mother-eagle's eye 
 
 When her bruised eaglet breathes: 
 "You 're wounded ! " "Nay," his soldier's pride 
 
 Touched to the quick, he said: 
 "I m killed. Sire ! " And, his Chief beside. 
 
 Smiling the boy fell dead. 
 
 I have heard prominent pubh'c readers give this as 
 a mere story without affording any definite con- 
 ception of either speaker or Hstener. In the first 
 reading over of the poem, one may find no hint of 
 either. But the student catches the phrase "we 
 French," and at once sees that a Frenchman must 
 be speaking. He soon discovers that the whole 
 poem is colored by the feeling of some old soldier 
 of Napoleon who was either an eye-witness of the 
 scene or who knew Napoleon's bearing so well that 
 he could easily picture it to his imagination. The 
 poem now becomes a living thing, and its inter- 
 pretation by voice and action is rendered possible. 
 
The Hearer 35 
 
 But is this all ? To whom does the soldier speak ? 
 The listener seems entirely in the background. 
 This is wise, because the other in telling his story 
 would naturally lose himself in his memories and 
 grow more or less oblivious of his hearer. But the 
 conception of a sympathetic auditor is needed to 
 quicken the fervor and animation of the speaker. 
 Does not the phrase "we French" imply that the 
 hstener is another Frenchman whose patriotic en- 
 thusiasm responds to the story ? The short phrases, 
 and suggestive hints through the poem, are thus 
 explained. The speaker seems to imply that Na- 
 poleon's bearing is well known to his listener. Cer- 
 tainly upon the conception of such a speaker and 
 such a hearer depends the spirit, dramatic force, 
 and even thought of the poem. 
 
 I have chosen this illustration purposely, because, 
 of all monologues, this lays possibly the least em- 
 phasis on a listener; yet it cannot be adequately 
 rendered by the voice, or even properly conceived 
 in thought, without a distinct realization of such a 
 person. 
 
 In Browning's "Rabbi Ben Ezra," the speaker 
 is an old man. "Grow old along with me !" indi- 
 cates this, and we feel his age and experience all 
 through the poem. But without the presence of 
 this youth, who must have expressed pity for the 
 loneliness and gloom of age, the old man would 
 never have broken forth so suddenly and so forci- 
 bly in the portrayal of his noble philosophy of life. 
 He expands with joy, love for his race, and rever- 
 ence for Providence. " Grow old along with me ! " 
 "Trust God: see all, nor be afraid !" His enthu- 
 siasm, his exalted realization of hfe, are due to his 
 own nobihty of character. But his earnestness, his 
 
36 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 vivid illustrations, his emphasis and action, spring 
 from his efforts to expound the philosophy of hfe to 
 his youthful Hstener and to correct the young man's 
 one-sided views. The characters of both speaker 
 and listener are necessary in order that one may 
 receive an understanding of the argument. 
 
 RABBI BEN EZRA 
 
 Grow old along with me ! the best is yet to be. 
 
 The last of life, for which the first was made: 
 Our times are in His hand who saith, "A whole I planned. 
 
 Youth shows but half ; trust God : see all, nor be afraid ! " 
 
 Not that, amassing flowers, youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, 
 
 W^hich lily leave and then as best recall ! " 
 Not that, admiring stars, it yearned, *'Nor Jove, nor Mars; 
 
 Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all ! " 
 
 Not for such hopes and fears, annulling youth's brief years. 
 
 Do I remonstrate ; folly wide the mark ! 
 Rather I prize the doubt low kinds exist without. 
 
 Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 
 
 Poor vaunt of life indeed, were man but formed to feed 
 
 On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: 
 Such feasting ended, then as sure an end to men ; 
 
 Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast ? 
 
 Rejoice we are allied to That which doth provide 
 
 And not partake, effect and not receive ! 
 A spark disturbs our clod ; nearer we hold of God 
 
 Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. 
 
 Then, welcome each rebuff that turns earth's smoothness rough, 
 
 Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go ! 
 Be our joys three parts pain ! strive and hold cheap the strain ; 
 
 Learn, nor account the pang ; dare, never grudge the throe ! 
 
 For thence — a paradox which comforts while it mocks — 
 
 Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail : 
 What I aspired to be, and was not, comforts me; 
 
 A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 
 
The Hearer 37 
 
 What is he but a brute whose flesh hath soul to suit. 
 Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play ? 
 
 To man, propose this test — thy body at its best, 
 How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ? 
 
 Yet gifts should prove their use : I own the past profuse 
 
 Of power each side, perfection every turn : 
 Eyes, ears took in their dole, brain treasured up the whole; 
 
 Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"? 
 
 Not once beat "Praise be thine! I see the whole design, 
 
 I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: 
 Perfect I call Thy plan : thanks that I was a man ! 
 
 Maker, remake, complete, — I trust what Thou shalt do ! " 
 
 For pleasant is this flesh: our soul, in its rose-mesh 
 
 Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest : 
 W^ould we some prize might hold to match those manifold 
 
 Possessions of the brute, — gain most, as we did best ! 
 
 Let us not always say, "Spite of this flesh to-day 
 
 I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" 
 
 As the bird wings and sings, let us cry, "All good things 
 
 Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul ! " 
 
 Therefore I summon age to grant youth's heritage. 
 
 Life's struggle having so far reached its term : 
 Thence shall I pass, approved a man, for aye removed 
 
 From the developed brute; a God though in the germ. 
 
 And I shall thereupon take rest, ere I be gone 
 
 Once more on my adventure brave and new; 
 Fearless and unperplexed, when I wage battle next. 
 
 What weapons to select, what armor to indue. 
 
 Youth ended, I shall try my gain or loss thereby; 
 
 Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold : 
 And I shall weigh the same, give life its praise or blame: 
 
 Young, all lay in dispute ; 1 shall know, being old. 
 
 For note, when evening shuts, a certain moment cuts 
 
 The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: 
 A whisper from the west shoots, "Add this to the rest, 
 
 Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." 
 
38 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 So, still within this life, though lifted o'er its strife, 
 
 Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, 
 "This rage was right ' the main, that acquiescence vain: 
 
 The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." 
 
 For more is not reserved to man, with soul just nerved 
 
 To act to-morrow what he learns to-day; 
 Here, work enough to watch the Master work, and catch 
 
 Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. 
 
 As it was better, youth should strive, through acts uncouth, 
 Toward making, than repose on aught found made; 
 
 So, better, age, exempt from strife, should know, than tempt 
 Further. Thou waitedst age ; wait death nor be afraid ! 
 
 Enough now, if the Right and Good and Infinite 
 Be named here, as thou call st thy hand thine own, 
 
 With knowledge absolute, subject to no dispute 
 
 From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. 
 
 Be there, for once and all, severed great minds from small. 
 
 Announced to each his station in the Past ! 
 Was I the world arraigned, were they my soul disdained. 
 
 Right ? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last ! 
 
 Now, who shall arbitrate ? Ten men love what I hate, 
 
 Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; 
 Ten, who in ears and eyes match me: we all surmise, 
 
 They this thing, and I that ; whom shall my soul believe } 
 
 Not on the vulgar mass called "work" must sentence pass, 
 Things done, that took the eye and had the price; 
 
 O'er which, from level stand, the low world laid its hand, 
 Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: 
 
 But all, the world's coarse thumb and finger failed to plumb, 
 
 So passed in making up the main account; 
 All instincts immature, all purposes unsure. 
 
 That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount; 
 
 Thoughts hardly to be packed into a narrow act, 
 Fancies that broke through language and escaped ; 
 
 All I could never be, all men ignored in me. 
 
 This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. 
 
The Hearer 3q 
 
 Ay, note that Potter's wheel, that metaphor ! and feel 
 Why time spins fast, why passive Hes our clay, — 
 
 Thou, to whom fools propound, when the wine makes its round, 
 "Since hfe fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!" 
 
 Fool ! All that is at all lasts ever, past recall ; 
 
 Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: 
 What entered into thee, that was, is, and shall be : 
 
 Time's wheel runs back or stops; potter and clay endure. 
 
 He fixed thee mid this dance of plastic circumstance, 
 This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest 
 
 Machinery just meant to give thy soul its bent. 
 
 Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 
 
 What though the earlier grooves which ran the laughing loves 
 
 Around thy base, no longer pause and press ? 
 What though, about thy rim, skull-things in order grim 
 
 Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress ? 
 
 Look thou not down but up ! to uses of a cup. 
 The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, 
 
 The new wine's foaming flow, the Master's lips a-glow ! 
 
 Thou, Heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's 
 wheel ? 
 
 But I need, now as then. Thee, God, who mouldest men ; 
 
 And since, not even while the whirl was worst. 
 Did I — to the wheel of life, with shapes and colors rife. 
 
 Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst ; 
 
 So take and use Thy work, amend what flaws may lurk. 
 What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim ! 
 
 My times be in Thy hand ! perfect the cup as planned ! 
 Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same ! 
 
 Even when the words are the same, the delivery 
 changes according to the peculiarities of the hearer. 
 No one tells a story in the same way to different 
 persons. When it is narrated to a little child, 
 greater emphasis is placed on points ; we make 
 longer pauses and more salient, definite pictures ; 
 but if it is told to an educated man, the thought is 
 
40 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 sketched more in outHne. To one who is ignorant 
 of the circumstances many details are carefully 
 suggested. Even the figures and illustrations are 
 consciously or unconsciously so chosen by one with 
 the dramatic instinct as to adapt the truth to 
 the listener. 
 
 In "The Englishman in Italy," the story is told 
 to a child. After the quotation, "such trifles," the 
 Englishman speaking would no doubt laugh. The 
 spirit of the poem is shown by the fact that it is 
 spoken by an Englishman to a little child that is 
 an Italian. 
 
 A monologue shows the effect of character upon 
 character, and hence nearly always implies the 
 direct speaking of one person to another. In this 
 it differs from a speech. Still, the principle apphes 
 even to the speaker. He cannot present a subject 
 in the same way to an educated and to an unedu- 
 cated audience, but instinctively chooses words 
 common to him and to his hearers and finds such 
 illustrations as make his meaning obvious to them. 
 All language is imperfect. Truth is not made clear 
 by being made superficial, but by the careful choos- 
 ing of words and illustrations understood by the 
 hearer. The speaker, accordingly, must feel his 
 audience. The imperfection of ordinary teaching 
 and speaking is thus explained by a form of dra- 
 matic art. Browning says at the close of "The 
 Ring and the Book": 
 
 *'Why take the artistic way to prove so mucli? 
 Because, it is the glory and good of Art, 
 That Art remains the one way possible 
 Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine, at least. 
 How look a brother in the face and say 
 *Thy right is wrong, eyes hast thou, yet art blind, 
 
The Hearer 41 
 
 Thine ears are stuffed and stopped, despite their length, 
 
 And, oh, the foolishness thou countest faith ! ' 
 
 Say this as silvery as tongue can troll — 
 
 The anger of the man may be endured, 
 
 The shrug, the disappointed eyes of him 
 
 Are not so bad to bear — but here 's the plague. 
 
 That all this trouble comes of telling truth. 
 
 Which truth, by when it reaches him, looks false. 
 
 Seems to be just the thing it would supplant, 
 
 Nor recognizable by whom it left; 
 
 While falsehood would have done the work of truth. 
 
 But Art, — wherein man nowise speaks to men, 
 
 Only to mankind, — Art may tell a truth 
 
 Obliquely, do the thing shall breed the thought. 
 
 Nor wrong the thought, missing the mediate word." 
 
 In "A Woman's Last Word," already explained 
 (p. 6), the listening husband, his attitude towards 
 his wife, his jealousy and suspicion, all serve to 
 call forth her love and nobility of character. He 
 is the cause of the monologue, and must be as defi- 
 nitely conceived as the speaker. Without a clear 
 conception of his character, her words cannot re- 
 ceive the right interpretation. 
 
 In "Bishop Blougram's Apology," the listener, 
 Mr. Gigadibs, is definitely, though indirectly, por- 
 trayed. He is a young man of thirty, impulsive, 
 ideal, but has not yet struggled with the problems 
 of life. His criticisms of Blougram are answered 
 by that worldly-minded ecclesiastic, who can de- 
 clare most truly the fact that an absolute faith is 
 not possible, and then assume — and thus contra- 
 dict himself — that to ignorant people he must 
 preach an absolute faith. The character of the 
 Bishop is strongly conceived, and his perception 
 of the highest possibility of life, as well as his failure 
 to carry it out, are portrayed with marvellous com- 
 
42 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 plexity and full recognition of the difficulties of 
 reconcihng idealism with reahsm. But the char- 
 acter of his young, enthusiastic, and earnest critic, 
 who lacks his experience and who may be par- 
 tially silenced, is as important as the apology of 
 Blougram. The poem is a debate between an 
 idealist and a realist, the speech of the reahst 
 alone being given. We catch the weakness and 
 the strength of both points of view, and thus enter 
 into the comprehension of a most subtle struggle 
 for self-justification. 
 
 It is some distance from Bishop Blougram to Mr. 
 Dooley, but the necessity for a listener in the mono- 
 logue, a hstener of definite character, is shown in 
 both cases. 
 
 Dooley 's talks are a departure from the regular 
 form of the monologue, in the fact that Hennessey 
 now and then speaks a word directly ; but this partial 
 introduction of dialogue does not change the fact 
 that all of these talks are monologues. Such in- 
 terruptions are not the only types of departure 
 from the strict form of the monologue. Browning 
 gives a narrative conclusion to " Pheidippides " and 
 "Bishop Blougram's Apology," and many varia- 
 tions are found among different authors. Hen- 
 nessey's remarks may be introduced as a way of- 
 arousing in the imagination of ordinary people a 
 conception of the listener. The relationship of the 
 two characters is thus possibly more easily pictured 
 to the ordinary imagination. 
 
 Of the necessity of Hennessey there can be no 
 doubt. Mr. Dooley would never speak in this way 
 but for the sympathetic and reverently attentive 
 Hennessey. The two are complemental and 
 necessary to each other. 
 
The Hearer 43 
 
 Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures were very pop- 
 ular, perhaps partly because of the silence express- 
 ing the patience of Caudle, though there were 
 appendices that indicated remarks written down by 
 Mr. Caudle, but long afterwards and when alone. 
 There are some advantages in the pure form ; 
 the mind is kept more concentrated. So without 
 Hennessey's direct remarks the picture of Dooley 
 might have been even better sustained. The form 
 of a monologue, however, must not be expected to 
 remain rigid. The point here to be apprehended 
 is the necessity of recognizing a listener as well as 
 a speaker. 
 
 Every Dooley demands a listener. He must have 
 appreciation. These monologues are a humorous, 
 possibly unconscious, presentation of this principle. 
 The audience or the reader is turned by the author 
 into a contemplative spectator of a simple situation. 
 A play demands a struggle, but here we have all 
 the restfulness, ease, and repose of life itself. We 
 all like to sit back and observe, especially when a 
 character is unfolding itself. 
 
 In the monologue as well as in the play there is 
 no direct teaching. Things happen as in life, and 
 we see the action of a thought upon a certain mind 
 and do our own exhorting or preaching. 
 
 The monologue adapts itself to all kinds of char- 
 acters and to every species of theme. It does not 
 require a plot, or even a great struggle, as in the 
 case of the play. Attention is fixed upon one indi- 
 vidual ; we are led into the midst of the natural 
 situations of everyday life, and receive with great 
 force the impressions which events, ideas, or other 
 characters make upon a specific type of man. 
 
 Eugene Field often makes children talk in mono- 
 
44 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 logues. Some persons have criticized Field's chil- 
 dren's poems and said they were not for children 
 at all. This is true, and Field no doubt intended 
 it so. He made his children talk naturally and 
 freely, as if to each other, but not as they would talk 
 to older people. 
 
 " Jes' 'Fore Christmas " is true to a boy's charac- 
 ter, but we must be careful in choosing a hstener. 
 The boy would not speak in this way to an audi- 
 ence, to the family at the dinner table, nor to any 
 one but a confidant. He must have, in fact, a 
 Hennessey, — possibly some other boy, or, more 
 likely, some hired man. 
 
 It is a mistake, unfortunately a common one, to 
 give such a poem as a speech to an audience. It 
 is not a speech, but only one end of a conversation. 
 It is almost lyric in its portrayal of feeling, but 
 still it concerns human action and the relations of 
 persons to each other. Therefore, it is primarily 
 dramatic, and a monologue. The words must be 
 considered as spoken to some confidential hstener. 
 
 A proper conception of the monologue produces 
 a higher appreciation of the work of Field. As 
 monologues, his poems are always consistent and 
 beautiful. When considered as mere stories for 
 children, their artistic form has been misconceived, 
 and interpreters of them with this conception have 
 often failed. 
 
 Even "Little Boy Blue," a decided lyric, has a 
 definite speaker, and the objects described and the 
 events indicated are intensely as well as dramati- 
 cally realized. Notice the abrupt transitions, the 
 sudden changes in feeling. It is more easily ren- 
 dered with a slight suggestion of a sympathetic 
 listener. 
 
The Hearer 45 
 
 Many persons regard James Whitcomb Riley's 
 "Knee-deep in June" as a Ijric; but has it enough 
 unconsciousness for this ? To me it is far more 
 flexible and spontaneous when considered as a 
 monologue. The interpreter of the poem can make 
 longer pauses. He can so identify himself with the 
 character as to give genial and hearty laughter, and 
 thus indicate dramatically the sudden arrival of 
 ideas. To reveal the awakening of an idea is the 
 very soul of spontaneous expression, and such awak- 
 ening is nearly always dramatic. So in the follow- 
 ing conception, what a sudden, joyous discovery 
 can be made of 
 
 ''Mr. Blue Jay full o' sass, 
 In them base-ball cloes o' hisn." 
 
 Notice also the sudden breaks in transition that 
 can be indicated in 
 
 "Blue birds' nests tucked up there 
 Conveniently for the boy 'at 's apt to be 
 Up some other apple tree." 
 
 Notice after "to be" how he suddenly enjoys the 
 birds' cunning and laughs for the moment at the 
 boys' failure. You can accentuate, too, his dra- 
 matic feeling for May and "'bominate its prom- 
 ises" with more decision and point. 
 
 The "you" in this poem and the frequent im- 
 peratives indicate the conception in the author's 
 mind of a speaker and a sympathetic companion 
 out in the fields in June. It certainly detracts from 
 the simplicity, dramatic intensity, naturalness, and 
 spontaneity to make of it a kind of address to an 
 audience. The same is true of the "Liztown 
 Humorist," "Kings by 's Mill," " Joney," and many 
 others which are usually considered and rendered 
 
46 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 as stories. They are monologues. Possibly a com- 
 pleter title for them would be lyric monologues. 
 
 While the interpreter of these monologues can 
 easily turn his auditors into a sympathetic and fa- 
 miliar group who might stand for his listener, he 
 can transport them in imagination to the right situ- 
 ation; and while this is often done by interpreters 
 with good effect, to my mind this does not change 
 their character as monologues. 
 
 Granting, however, that some of Riley's poems 
 are more or less speeches, it must be admitted that 
 he has written some definite and formal poems 
 which cannot be so conceived. "Nothin' to Say," 
 for example, is one of the most decided and formal 
 monologues found anywhere. In this the listener 
 
 NOTHIN' TO SAY 
 
 Nothin' to say, my daughter ! Nothin' at all to say ! — 
 Gyrls that 's in love, I 've noticed, ginerly has their way ! 
 Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me — 
 Yit here I am, and here you air ; and yer mother — where is she ? 
 
 You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size; 
 And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes: 
 Like her, too, about her livin'' here, — because she could n't stay: 
 It '11 'most seem like you was dead — like her ! — But I hain't got 
 nothin' to say ! 
 
 She left you her little Bible — writ yer name acrost the page — 
 And left her ear- bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age. 
 I 've alius kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away — 
 Nothin' to say, my daughter ! Nothin' at all to say ! 
 
 You don't rikollect her, I reckon ? No ; you was n't a year old then ! 
 And now yer — how old air you? W'y, child, not 'Hwenty!" 
 
 When ? 
 And yer nex' birthday 's in Aprile ? and you want to git married that 
 
 day? 
 ... I wisht yer mother was livin' ! — But — I hain't got nothin' to 
 
 say! 
 
The Hearer 47 
 
 Twenty year ! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found . 
 
 There 's a straw ketched onto yer dress there — I '11 bresh it off — 
 
 turn round. 
 (Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away !) 
 Nothin' to say, my daughter ! Nothin' at all to say ! 
 
 can be as definitely located as the speaker. To 
 conceal his own tears, the speaker turns or stops 
 and pretends to brush off a straw caught on his 
 daughter's dress. We have here in this monologue 
 also something unusual, but very suggestive and 
 strictly dramatic, — an aside wherein he evidently 
 turns away from his daughter — 
 
 (" Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away.") 
 
 Since the daughter is definitely located as listener 
 and the other speeches are spoken to her, this can 
 be given easily as a contrast, as an aside to himself, 
 and a slight turn of the body will serve to empha- 
 size, even as an aside often does in a play, the loca- 
 tion of the daughter, and the speaker's delation to 
 her. The sentiment also serves to emphasize the 
 character of the speaker. 
 
 In "Griggsby's Station" we have a most decided 
 monologue. Who is speaking, and to whom is the 
 monologue addressed ? Is the speaker the daugh- 
 ter in a family suddenly grown rich, talking to her 
 mother ? The character of the speaker and of the 
 hstener must be definitely conceived and carefully 
 suggested in order to give truth to the rendering or 
 even to realize its meaning. 
 
 The same is true regarding many of Holman 
 Day's stories in his "Up in Maine," and other 
 books. With hardly any exception these are best 
 rendered as monologues. 
 
48 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Many of the poems of Sam Walter Foss and 
 other popular writers of the present are mono- 
 logues. The homelike characters demand sympa- 
 thetic listeners, who are, by implication, of the same 
 general type and character as the speaker. Even 
 "The House by the Side of the Road" is better 
 given with the spirit of the monologue. It is too 
 personal, too dramatic, to be turned into a speech. 
 
 Again, notice Mrs. Piatt's "Sometime," and a 
 dozen examples in Webb's "Vagrom Verse"; also 
 "With Lead and Line along Varying Shores "; 
 and in Oscar Fay Adams's "Sicut Patribus," where 
 you would hardly expect monologues, you find that 
 "At Bay" and "Conrad's Choir^' have the form of 
 monologues. 
 
 Many monologues in our popular writers seem 
 at first simple and without the formal and definite 
 construction of those employed by Browning, yet 
 after careful examination we feel that the concep- 
 tion of the monologue has slowly taken possession 
 of our writers, it may be unconsciously, and that 
 the true interpretation of many of the most popu- 
 lar poems demands from the reader a dramatic 
 conception. 
 
 For the comprehension of any monologue, those 
 points where the speaker is directly affected by 
 the hearer need especial attention. The speaker 
 occasionally echoes the words of his hearer. Mrs. 
 Caudle, for instance, often quotes the words of her 
 spouse, and these were printed by Douglas Jerrold 
 in italics and even in separate paragraphs. "For 
 the love of mercy let you sleep ? " for example, was 
 thus printed to emphasize the interruption by 
 Caudle. These words would be echoed by her with 
 affected surprise. Then she would pour out her sar- 
 
The Hearer 4g 
 
 casm: "Mercy indeed; I wish you would show a 
 httle of it to other people." In most authors these 
 echoed speeches are indicated by quotation marks. 
 Browning sometimes has words in parentheses. 
 Note "(What 'cicada'.? Pooh!)" in *^\ Tale." 
 "Cicada" was certainly spoken by the listener, but 
 the other words in the parentheses and other paren- 
 theses in this monologue are more personal remarks 
 by the speaker. They have reference, however, to 
 the listener's attitude. 
 
 In some cases Browning gives no indication by 
 even quotation marks that the speaker is echoing 
 words of the hearer. The attitude of the listener 
 must be varied by the dramatic instinct of the 
 reader. The grasp of the situation greatly depends 
 upon this. It is one of the most important aspects 
 of the dramatic instinct. (" Up at a Villa — Down 
 in the City," see p. 65.) "Why" and "What of a 
 Villa" certainly refers to the words, or at least the 
 attitude, of the listener, which is realized from the 
 manner of the speaker. 
 
 In the same poem the question "Is it ever hot 
 in the square.?" may be the echo of a word or a 
 thought of the listener. In this case the speaker 
 would answer it more abruptly and positively when 
 he says, "There is a fountain to spout and splash." 
 If, on the contrary, the thought is his own, and 
 comes up naturally in his mind as one of the points 
 in his description or as a result of living over his 
 experience down in the city, he would give it less 
 abruptly, with less force or emphasis. In general, a 
 quotation or the echo of the words of a listener are 
 given by the speaker with a different manner. 
 
 Tennyson, though the fact is often overlooked, 
 has written many monologues. 
 
 4 
 
50 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Some readers give "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" 
 as a mere story. Is there, then, no thought of the 
 character of the yeoman who is talking with burn- 
 ing indignation at the death of his friend ? 
 
 LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 Of me you shall not win renown: 
 You thought to break a country heart 
 
 For pastime, ere you went to town. 
 At me you smiled, but unbeguiled 
 
 I saw the snare, and I retired: 
 The daughter of a hundred earls. 
 
 You are not one to be desired. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 I know you proud to bear your name, 
 Your pride is yet no mate for mine. 
 
 Too proud to care from whence I came. 
 Nor would I break for your sweet sake 
 
 A heart that doats on truer charms. 
 A simple maiden in her flower 
 
 Is worth a hundred coats of arms. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 Some meeker pupil you must find. 
 For were you queen of all that is, 
 
 I could not stoop to such a mind. 
 You sought to prove how I could love, 
 
 And my disdain is my reply. 
 The lion on your old stone gates 
 
 Is not more cold to you than I. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 You put strange memories in my head; 
 Nor thrice your branching limes have blown 
 
 Since I beheld young Laurence dead. 
 Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies: 
 
 A great enchantress you may be: 
 But there was that across his throat 
 
 Which you had hardly cared to see. 
 
The Hearer 51 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 When thus he met his mother's view, 
 She had the passions of her kind, 
 
 She spake some certain truths of you. 
 Indeed I heard one bitter word 
 
 That scarce is fit for you to hear: 
 Her manners had not that repose 
 
 Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 There stands a spectre in your hall : 
 The guilt of blood is at your door: 
 
 You changed a wholesome heart to gall. 
 You held your course without remorse, 
 
 To make him trust his modest worth, 
 And, last, you fixed a vacant stare. 
 
 And slew him with your noble birth. 
 
 Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 From yon blue heavens above us bent 
 The gardener Adam and his wife 
 
 Smile at the claims of long descent. 
 Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 
 
 'T is only noble to be good. 
 Kind hearts are more than coronets. 
 
 And simple faith than Norman blood. 
 
 I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 You pine among your halls and towers: 
 The languid light of your proud eyes 
 
 Is wearied of the rolling hours. 
 In glowing health, with boundless wealth, 
 
 But sickening of a vague disease. 
 You know so ill to deal with time. 
 
 You needs must play such pranks as these. 
 
 Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, 
 
 If Time be heavy on your hands. 
 Are there no beggars at your gate, 
 
 Nor any poor about your lands ? 
 Oh ! teach the orphan-boy to read. 
 
 Or teach the orphan-girl to sew. 
 Pray Heaven for a human heart, 
 
 And let the foolish yeoman go. 
 
52 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 The character of the speaker must be reaHzed 
 frora first to last. But there is something more. 
 Did the yeoman win or lose his case ? Does Ten- 
 nyson give us no sign of the effect of his words upon 
 the lady to whom his rebuke was directed ? All 
 whom I have heard read it, cause one to think that 
 she remains stoHd, unresponsive, and cold, or else 
 she was not really present, and the poem is a kind 
 of lyric. But you will notice that in the last stanza 
 the speaker drops the "Lady," and says "Clara, 
 Clara," which certainly shows a change in feeling. 
 There are also other indications that she was af- 
 fected by his words, and that the speaker saw it. 
 In the line, "You know so ill to deal with time," 
 he may be excusing her conduct, while in the last 
 lines he suggests how she should live to atone for 
 the past: 
 
 "Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, 
 Or teach the orphan-girl to sew." 
 
 He certainly would not have spoken thus if she had 
 not by word or look shown indications of repent- 
 ance. Truth must accomplish its results. Art 
 must reflect the victory of truth. We perceive the 
 signs of victory in the very words of the poem, and 
 the character of the speaker's expression must 
 reflect the response in her. The reader who dra- 
 matically or truly interprets the poem, feeling this, 
 will show a change in feeling and movement, and 
 give tender coloring to the closing words. 
 
 Of course there is much moralizing in this and 
 a smoother movement than in a monologue by 
 Browning. Tennyson is not a master of the mono- 
 logue. Some may think that Clara would never 
 have endured this long lecture, and that it is un- 
 natural for us to conceive of her as being really 
 
The Hearer 
 
 53 
 
 present; but, though poetry usually takes fewer 
 words to say something than would be used in life, 
 sometimes — and here possibly — it takes more. 
 Certainly Tennyson often takes more, and this is 
 one reason why he is not a dramatic poet. The 
 poem, however, can be effectively rendered as a 
 monologue, and thus receive a more adequate 
 interpretation. 
 
 There is frequently more than one listener. In 
 "The Bishop orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's 
 Church," the Bishop speaks to many "sons," 
 though he calls out Anselm especially, his chief 
 heir, perhaps. In "The Ring and the Book" some 
 of the speakers address the court and almost make 
 speeches, as do the lawyers in their pleas, for in- 
 stance. But the Pope, who acts, it will be remem- 
 bered, as the judge, is in many cases the person 
 addressed. The principle is the same, though the 
 situations may differ. In every case, such a situa- 
 tion, listener, or listeners are chosen as will best 
 express the character of the speaker. Notice, for 
 example, that Pompilia tells her story on her dying 
 bed to the sympathetic nuns, who would best call 
 forth the points in her story. 
 
 The listener is sometimes changed, or may change, 
 positions. In Riley's "There, Little Girl, Don't 
 Cry," the three great periods in a woman's life 
 are portrayed, and the location of the listener must 
 be changed to show the different situations and 
 changes of time and place as well as the character 
 of the listener. Long pauses and extreme varia- 
 tions in the modulations of the voice are also neces- 
 sary in such a transition. This poem also affords 
 an example of the age and experience of the hstener 
 affecting expression. 
 
54 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 In many monologues the person about whom 
 the speaker talks is of great importance. In " The 
 Flight of the Duchess" we almost entirely lose 
 sight of the speaker and of the hearer, and our 
 thought successively centres upon the Duke, on his 
 mother, on the old crone, and, above all, on the 
 Duchess. These characters are made to live before 
 us, and we see the impressions they produce upon 
 a simple, loyal heart. The beauty of this wonder- 
 ful monologue lies in the portrayal of the honest 
 nature of the speaker and the revelation of the im- 
 pressions made upon him by those who have played 
 parts in his life. 
 
 The series of monologues or soliloquies styled 
 by Browning "James Lee's Wife" were called 
 "James Lee" in his first edition, and many feel 
 that Browning made a mistake in changing the 
 title; for the theme in these is the character, not 
 of the woman who speaks so much as of the man 
 about whom she speaks. 
 
 In Browning's "Chve," the speaker, who "is 
 by no means a Clive," according to Professor 
 Dowden, "has to betray something of his own 
 character and at the same time to set forth the 
 character of the hero of his tale." Here, of course, 
 both speaker and listener are subordinated to Clive, 
 the person spoken of. Hence some may be tempted 
 to think that "CHve" is a mere story. Dowden, 
 Chesterton, and others speak of it as a story, but 
 it has the movement, the dramatic action, the unity 
 and spirit of a monologue. The fact that the chief 
 character is the one about whom the speaker talks 
 makes the poem none the less dramatic. The more 
 "Clive" is studied, the more will the student feel 
 that its chief theme is the contact and conflict of 
 
The Hearer 55 
 
 characters, and the more, too, will he perceive that 
 its atmosphere and peculiarities are caused by the 
 sense of a speaker and a listener, each of a distinct 
 
 This indirect narration or suggestion is often 
 important, but in every case it is the speaker who 
 reflects as from a mirror impressions produced upon 
 him by the characters of those about whom he 
 speaks. 
 
 The study of the relations of speaker and hearer 
 requires discrimination to be made between the 
 soliloquy and the monologue. 
 
 Shakespeare's soliloquies may be thought to be 
 unnatural. No man ever talked to his fellows as 
 Hamlet talks when alone, and Juliet at the window 
 is made to reveal her deepest feelings. But all love 
 songs express what the words of the ordinary man 
 can never reveal. All art, and especially all litera- 
 ture, is a kind of objective embodiment of feeling 
 or the processes of thinking. While Shakespeare's 
 soliloquies may not seem as natural as conversa- 
 tion, in one sense they are more natural expressions 
 of thinking and feehng. The highest poetry may 
 be as natural as prose, or even more natural; all 
 depends upon the mood or theme. In all art and 
 literature, naturalness is due not to mere external 
 accidents, but to the truthfulness of the expression 
 of deeper emotions of the human heart. 
 
 Many feel that any representation in words of 
 a mood or feeling is a lyric; hence they regard 
 most monologues as lyrics. But are not Shake- 
 speare's soliloquies dramatic? The lyric spirit 
 gives objective form to feeling, but dramatic poetry 
 does this in a way to show character and motives 
 as well as moods. 
 
50 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 To a certain extent, the lyric spirit and the dra- 
 matic can never be completely separated. There 
 has never been a good play that was not lyric as 
 well as dramatic. There has never been a true 
 lyric poem that has not revealed some trait of 
 human character and implied certain relations of 
 human beings to each other. It is only the pre- 
 dominance of feeling and mood that makes a poem 
 lyric, or the predominance of relations or conflicts 
 of human beings that makes a passage dramatic. 
 All the elements of poetry are inseparably united 
 because they express living aspects of the human 
 heart. 
 
 Shakespeare's sohloquies deserve careful study 
 as the best introduction to the deep nature of the 
 monologue. They are objective embodiments in 
 words of feelings and moods of which the speaker 
 himself is only partly conscious. This is the very 
 climax of hterature, — to word what no individual 
 ever words. In a sense, this is true of a lyric, which 
 may interpret in the many words of a song what in 
 life is a mere look or the hardly revealed attitude 
 of a soul. The deepest feelings of love can never be 
 expressed in the prose of conversation. They can be 
 suggested only in the exalted language of poetry. 
 
 These principles apply especially to the appre- 
 ciation of a sohloquy. Of this phase of dramatic or 
 literary art there has been but one master, and that 
 was Shakespeare. He could make Hamlet think 
 and feel before us without relation to another 
 human being. He is the only author, practically, 
 who has ever been able to portray a character 
 entirely alone. In the great climaxes of his plays, 
 we feel that he is dealing with the interpretation of 
 the deepest moods and motives of life. 
 
The Hearer 57 
 
 The exclamation, "Oh, that this too, too sohd 
 flesh would melt," after the departure of the King 
 and the Court, reveals to us Hamlet's real condi- 
 tion, his impression or premonition that something 
 is wrong. We are thus prepared for the effect of 
 the news brought by Horatio and Marcellus, be- 
 cause his attitude has been first revealed to us by 
 Shakespeare. Shakespeare alone could perform 
 this marvellous feat. Again, one of the most im- 
 portant acts closes with a soliloquy which reveals 
 Hamlet's spirit more definitely than could be done 
 in any other way. This sohloquy comes naturally. 
 Hamlet drives all from him, that he may arrange 
 the dozen lines which he wishes to add to the play. 
 This plan has come to him while he was listening 
 to the actor, and must be shown by his action dur- 
 ing the actor's speech. Hamlet, in a proper stage 
 arrangement, is so placed as to occupy the atten- 
 tion of the audience while the actor is reciting. 
 The impressions produced upon him, and not the 
 player's rehearsal, form the centre of interest. By 
 turning away while listening to the actor, he can 
 indicate his agitation and the action of his mind in 
 deciding upon the plan which is definitely stated 
 in the soliloquy and forms the culmination of the 
 act. 
 
 Notice, too, how Shakespeare makes this solilo- 
 quy come naturally between his dismissal of the 
 two emissaries of the King and the writing of the 
 addition to the play. Hamlet's soul is laid bare. 
 He is roused to a pitch of great excitement over 
 the grief of the actor and his own indifference to 
 his father's murder. Then, taking up the play, he 
 begins to prepare his extra lines, and with this 
 closes the most passionate of all soliloquies. 
 
58 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Strictly speaking, a soliloquy is only a revelation 
 of the thinking of a person entirely alone and 
 uninfluenced by another; but a monologue im- 
 pHes thinking influenced by some peculiar type of 
 hearer. 
 
 Browning's soliloquies are practically mono- 
 loo^ues. We feel that the character almost " others " 
 itself and talks to itself as if to another person. 
 This is also natural. We know it by observing 
 children. But it is very different from the lonely 
 soul revealing itself in Shakespeare's soliloquies. 
 In fact, the monologue has taken such hold upon 
 Browning that even Pippa's soHloquies in "Pippa 
 Passes" are practically monologues. 
 
 In the "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister," the 
 monk talks to himself almost as to another person, 
 and his every idea is influenced by Brother Law- 
 rence, whom he sees in the garden below him, but - 
 to whom he does not speak and who does not see \ 
 him. 
 
 SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER 
 
 Gr-r-r — there go, my heart's abhorrence ! 
 
 Water your damned flower-pots, do ! 
 If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, 
 
 God's blood, would not mine kill you ! 
 What ? your myrtle-bush wants trimming ? 
 
 Oh, that rose has prior claims — 
 Needs its leaden vase filled brimming ? 
 
 Hell dry you up with its flames ! 
 
 At the meal we sit together: 
 
 Salve tibi! I must hear 
 Wise talk of the kind of weather. 
 
 Sort of season, time of year: 
 
The Hearer 59 
 
 Not a 'plenteous cork-crop: scarcely 
 
 Dare we hope oak-galls^ I doubt: 
 What's the Latin name for ''parsley" ? 
 
 What 's the Greek name for Swine's Snout ? 
 
 Whew ! We '11 have our platter burnished, 
 
 Laid with care on our own shelf ! 
 With a fire-new spoon we 're furnished, 
 
 And a goblet for ourself, 
 Rinsed like something sacrificial 
 
 Ere 't is fit to touch our chaps — 
 Marked with L for our initial ! 
 
 (He-he ! There his lily snaps !) 
 
 Sainty forsooth ! While brown Dolores 
 
 Squats outside the Convent bank 
 With Sanchicha, telling stories. 
 
 Steeping tresses in the tank. 
 Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, 
 
 — Can't I see his dead eye glow, 
 Bright as 't were a Barbary corsair's ? 
 
 (That is, if he 'd let it show !) 
 
 When he finishes refection, 
 
 Knife and fork he never lays 
 Cross-wise, to my recollection. 
 
 As do I, in Jesu's praise. 
 I the Trinity illustrate. 
 
 Drinking watered orange-pulp — 
 In three sips the Arian frustrate; 
 
 While he drains his at one gulp. 
 
 Oh, those melons ? If he 's able 
 
 We 're to have a feast : so nice ! 
 One goes to the Abbot's table. 
 
 All of us get each a slice. 
 How go on your flowers ? None double ? 
 
 Not one fruit-sort can you spy ? 
 Strange ! — And I, too, at such trouble 
 
 Keep them close-nipped on the sly ! 
 
6o Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 There 's a great text in Galatians, 
 
 Once you trip on it, entails 
 Twenty-nine distinct damnations. 
 
 One sure, if another fails : 
 If I trip him just a-dying. 
 
 Sure of heaven as sure can be. 
 Spin him round and send him flying 
 
 Off to hell, a Manichee ? 
 
 Or, my scrofulous French novel 
 
 On gray paper with blunt type ! 
 Simply glance at it, you grovel 
 
 Hand and foot in Belial's gripe: 
 If I double down its pages 
 
 At the woeful sixteenth print. 
 When he gathers his greengages, 
 
 Ope a sieve and slip it in 't ? 
 
 Or, there 's Satan ! — one might venture 
 
 Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave 
 Such a flaw in the indenture 
 
 As he 'd miss, till, past retrieve, 
 Blasted lay that rose-acacia 
 
 We 're so proud of ! Hy, Zy, Hine . . . 
 'St, there 's Vespers ! Plena gratia 
 
 Ave, Virgo! Gr-r-r — you swine ! 
 
 In this "soHloquy'* we have, in a few Hnes, 
 possibly the strongest interpretation of hypocrisy 
 in literature. The soliloquy begins with the 
 speaker's accidental discovery of the kindly-hearted 
 monk, Brother Lawrence, attending to his flowers 
 in the court below, and the sight causes an explo- 
 sion of rage. So intense is his feeling that, in his 
 imagination, he talks directly to Brother Lawrence. 
 Note, for example, such suggestions as, '*How go 
 on your flowers.'^" Of course. Brother Lawrence 
 knows nothing of the speaker's presence; that 
 worthy, with gusto, answers his own questions to 
 himself. 
 
The Hearer 6i 
 
 Notice also the abrupt transitions. Browning, 
 even in his soliloquies, often introduces events. 
 "There his lily snaps !" is given with sudden glee 
 as the speaker discovers the accident. 
 
 The difference between Browning and Shake- 
 speare may be still more clearly conceived. " Shake- 
 speare," says some one, *' makes his characters live; 
 Browning makes his think." Shakespeare reveals 
 character by making a man think alone, or, in 
 contact with others, act. Browning fixes our at- 
 tention upon an individual, and shows us what 
 he is by making him think, and usually he sug- 
 gests the cause of the thinking in some relation 
 to objects, events, or characters. The situation in 
 every case is most favorable to the expression of 
 thought and feeling, and of deeper motives. The 
 chief difference between Shakespeare and Brown- 
 ing is the difference between a play and a mono- 
 logue. The point of view of the two men is not the 
 same, and we must appreciate that of both. 
 
 Browning's "Saul" may be regarded as a sohlo- 
 quy . David is alone. Browning's words here help us 
 to an appreciation of his peculiar kind of soliloquy. 
 
 "Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my voice to my heart 
 Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took 
 
 part. 
 As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, 
 And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep ! " 
 
 "My voice to my heart" is very suggestive. 
 Browning always made his speaker, when alone, 
 talk to himself. He divides the personality of the 
 individual much more than did Shakespeare. 
 Shakespeare simply makes a man think aloud, 
 while Browning almost makes consciousness dual. 
 
62 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Some one may ask, — Why not take any story or 
 lyric and give it directly to an imaginary listener, 
 and only indirectly to the audience ? 
 
 This is exactly what should be done in some 
 cases. Who can declaim as a speech or as if to 
 an audience "John Anderson, my Jo," or **The 
 Lover's Appeal," and not feel the situation to be 
 ludicrous ? 
 
 Some of the tenderest lyric poems should be 
 given as though to an imaginary auditor somewhat 
 to one side. As the lyric is subjective, the turning 
 to one side is a help to the subjective sympathetic 
 condition, especially in cases where the words of 
 the lyric are supposed to be addressed to some in- 
 dividual character. It is very difficult for readers 
 to speak to an audience directly and not pass 
 into the oratorio attitude of mind. A little turn 
 to the side, when simple, suggests the indirect 
 nature of a poem. It gives power to change atten- 
 tion and suggests degrees of subjectivity, and 
 thus tends to prevent the true spirit of the poem 
 from being destroyed by oratorical or declamatory 
 effects. 
 
 Perhaps Charles Lamb's famous saying, that 
 recitation perverts a beautiful poem, would have 
 been qualified had some poem been read to him 
 with full recognition of its artistic character. The 
 poem is not a speech, but a work of art, and the 
 speaker must be clearly conceived, his emotion sym- 
 pathetically realized, and given, not to an audience, 
 but to an imaginary listener ; thus all the delicacy 
 and tenderness may be truthfully revealed and 
 declamation and unnaturalness avoided. 
 
 In general, every kind of literature can be ade- 
 quately rendered aloud. The true spirit of those 
 
The Hearer 63 
 
 poems that have been considered unadapted to 
 such rendering can possibly be shown by the 
 voice if we find the real situation, and do not try 
 to give the words the directness of an oration or a 
 lesson, or the objectivity of a play. 
 
 When a story or a poem can be made more nat- 
 ural and more effective by being conceived as 
 spoken by a character of a definite type to a definite 
 type of hearer, it should usually be regarded as a 
 monologue. Readers v/ho picture not only the 
 peculiar character speaking, but the person to 
 whom he speaks, will receive and give a more ade- 
 quate impression, one more dramatic, more simple, 
 and far more expressive of character than those 
 who confuse it with a lyric or a story. 
 
 Dramatic art, in fact all art, is indirect, except 
 in some forms of speaking. The true orator or 
 speaker, however, while having a direct purpose, 
 never directly commands or dominates his audi- 
 ence. Every true artist, painter, musician, or even 
 orator, simply awakens the faculties and powers of 
 others, and leads men to decide for themselves. 
 The true speaker should appeal to imagination and 
 reason, and not attempt to force men to accept his 
 ideals and convictions. That would be domina- 
 tion, not oratory. True art is on the rational basis 
 of kinship of nature. Faculty awakens faculty, 
 vision quickens vision. 
 
 No hard and fast line can be draw^n between the 
 arts, even between the oration and the monologue. 
 But the oration is more direct, more conscious ; 
 speaker and listener understand, as a rule, exactly 
 the purpose and the intention. The monologue, 
 on the contrary, is indirect. Its interpreter en- 
 deavors faithfully to portray human nature. He 
 
64 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 reveals the impressions produced upon him instead 
 of endeavoring directly to produce a specific im- 
 pression upon an audience. 
 
 The conception of the listener in the monologue 
 is different from that of the listener in the oration. 
 In every monologue, the interpreter shows the con- 
 tact of a speaker with a listener and conveys a 
 definite impression made upon him by each. He 
 especially conveys, not only his identification with 
 the character speaking, but that character's mental 
 or conversational attitude towards another human 
 being and the unconscious variation of mental 
 action resulting from such a relationship. 
 
 IV. PLACE OR SITUATION 
 
 Whether or not we agree with the ancient rules 
 of the unities regarding place, time, and action as 
 laws of the drama, every one must recognize the 
 fact that all three conceptions are in some sense 
 necessary to an illusion. A dramatic action or 
 position implies not only character, but specific 
 location and circumstance. The situation helps 
 to reveal the character and shows its relation to 
 human life. 
 
 Therefore, dramatic effect implies more than 
 contact of different characters. It is concerned 
 with such a placing of the characters as will reveal 
 something of motives. 
 
 Two men may meet continually in society or in 
 the ordinary and conventional relations of business 
 and the peculiar characteristics of neither may ever 
 be revealed. Steel and flint may lie passively side 
 by side or may be frozen in the same ice without 
 
Place or Situation 65 
 
 any suggestion of heat. The steel must strike the 
 flint suddenly to bring forth a spark of fire. In the 
 same way, character must collide with character 
 in such a situation, such a conflict of interests, such 
 opposite determinations or ambitions, as will cause 
 a revelation of motives and dispositions. Steel 
 and flint illustrate character. The stroke is the 
 situation, the spark the dramatic result. Place, 
 accordingly, is often of great importance in dra- 
 matic art. 
 
 The monologue is no exception to this. The 
 reader must definitely imagine not only a speaker 
 and a listener, but also a location or situation. 
 From a dramatic point of view, situation is perhaps 
 more necessary to a monologue than to a play. 
 Without a situation, nothing can be dramatic. 
 
 In Browning's "Up at a Villa — Down in the 
 City," is the speaker located in the city, at the 
 villa, or at some point between the two ? 
 
 UP AT A VILLA — DOWN IN THE CITY 
 
 (as distinguished by an ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY) 
 
 Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, 
 The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; 
 Ah, such a Ufe, such a Hfe, as one leads at the window there ! 
 
 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 ! WTiy ? 
 They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there 's something to take the 
 eye! 
 
 5 
 
66 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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, 
 
 'T is 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 hiU. 
 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. 
 
Place or Situation 67 
 
 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 smil- 
 ing 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 plac- 
 ing 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 proces- 
 sion. 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 ? 
 
68 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 pos- 
 sible, because when Browning changes his situation 
 in this way, he always suggests definitely the stages 
 of the journey. He never makes a mistake regard- 
 ing the location or situation of his characters. His 
 conceptions are so dramatic that he is always con- 
 sistent 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 
 
Place or Situation 69 
 
 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 repHes, 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 ex- 
 pressive 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 pro- 
 cession to waken memory and enthusiasm, and 
 bring all up as a present reality. The procession 
 can be easily imagined as starting from some con- 
 vent 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 cHmax 
 of his enthusiasm, as he portrayed to his less re- 
 sponsive 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 
 
70 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 Hberal thieves were 
 shot." The "hberal thieves" are doubtless three 
 Italian reformers who had been trying to deliver 
 their country. It is possible to imagine the pro- 
 cession as wholly from memory, and "noon strikes " 
 to be simply a part of his imagination and ex- 
 ultation. 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 hstener, "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 con- 
 ceived in a definite situation. When once a situ- 
 ation 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 de- 
 termine somewhat the feehng and the expression. 
 
Place or Situation 71 
 
 Difference in situation causes many differences in 
 action and in voice modulations. Whatever loca- 
 tion, therefore, the reader decides upon, every- 
 thing 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." 1 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 expen- 
 sive. 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 depart- 
 ment of life, however remote his allusions to events 
 or objects or lines of knowledge which are unfamil- 
 iar 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 carry- 
 ing the body of his master from the "common 
 crofts," and so he is represented as looking up to 
 
72 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 the top of the hill and talking about the appro- 
 priateness of burying the master on the hilltop. 
 Browning's intimate knowledge of Greek was 
 shown by the phrase "gave us the doctrine of the 
 enchtic Z>e." 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 attenton to the fact 
 that this was the point in dispute which the gram- 
 marian 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." 
 
Place or Situation 73 
 
 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 Shake- 
 speare, Ben Jonson, and other sympathetic friends 
 used to meet, is presented to the imagination, and 
 Shakespeare is the speaker. Some one has pro- 
 posed 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 ? . . . 
 
74 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 "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 '11 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 .? AH '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 pro- 
 
Place or Situation 75 
 
 test 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 dis- 
 cusses 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 monopohzes 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 illustra- 
 tion 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 
 
76 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 his wife, who serves him as a model, and muses over 
 his work and his hfe. 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 criti- 
 cize 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 weak- 
 ness in drawing, he hints that there is something in 
 the others not in him. In fact, he recognizes one 
 of the deepest principles of hfe, as well as art, and 
 exclaims, 
 
Place or Situation 77 
 
 "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 iiot 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 pic^ 
 tures and for his return to Pans. And yet we find 
 a weak soul's acquiescence in fate — 
 
 "AH 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 rea ized only by one 
 
 recogniz ng the dramatic situation and appreciat- 
 
 ng fhe delicate suggestions of the atmosphere of 
 
 a ftudio and of time and place in relation to an 
 
 ^'One of the finest situations in Browning's verse 
 is that in "La Saisiaz." The poet has an appoint- 
 ment to climb a mountain with one of h- /riends, 
 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 
 
78 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 up alone, and pausing on the height, utters aloud 
 his reflections upon the immortahty 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 ex- 
 pected as his companion in this chmb is so near to 
 him as to be almost literally reahzed as a listener. 
 The poem fulfils the conditions of a monologue: 
 a hving soul intensely realizing a thought and situa- 
 tion 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 pro- 
 gressive 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 re- 
 veals 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 turn- 
 ing point of a hfe. 
 
 The most important words in the study of a mon- 
 ologue are usually the first. As a monologue is a 
 sudden vision of a life, it of course breaks into the 
 
Time and Connection 
 
 79 
 
 continuity of thought or discussion. The first 
 words are nearly always spoken in answer to some- 
 thing previously said or in reference to some event 
 or circumstance which is only suggested, yet which 
 must be definitely imagined. One of the most im- 
 portant 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 dehvered slowly and emphatically, 
 if auditors are to be given a clue to the processes of 
 the thought. The inflections and other modula- 
 tions 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 dis- 
 cussed with reference to the necessity of conceiv- 
 ing 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 em- 
 phasis 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 
 
8o Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 out- 
 break of passion, but the monologue must, as a rule, 
 break in at once with the specific answer of a defi- 
 nite 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 re- 
 minded me of Ralph Nickleby, I asked him to tell 
 
Time and Connection 8i 
 
 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 ex- 
 actly 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 num- 
 ber of points which would otherwise be of great 
 difficulty. 
 
 Mr. Macfadyen has well said, "Much of the ap- 
 parent 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 sur- 
 prise — 
 
 **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 dra- 
 matically without realizing the role the pohce are 
 playing, their rough handling of Lippo, and their 
 discovery that they have seized a monk at an un- 
 seemly 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 
 
82 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Medici" should be spoken very suggestively, and 
 we should feel with Lippo the consequent relief that 
 resulted, and the dismay also of the pohce on find- 
 ing they have in hand an artist friend of the greatest 
 man in Florence. "Boh ! you were best ! " means 
 that the hands of the poHceman have been released 
 from his throat. 
 
 All this dramatic action, however, must be sec- 
 ondary 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 cap- 
 tain of a night-watch in Florence as hstener, this 
 
Time and Connection 83 
 
 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 sim- 
 ple 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 mono- 
 logues, but the student will find that these are often 
 the easiest to master. They can be easily inter- 
 preted by dramatic instinct. There is always a 
 situation, dramatic in proportion to the abruptness 
 of the beginning, and a few glances will fasten at- 
 tention 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. 
 
84 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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." 
 
 i 
 
 Here, in this leafy place, 
 
 Quiet he lies, 
 Cold, with his sightless face I 
 
 Turned to the skies; ' 
 
 'T is 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, 
 
Time and Connection 85 
 
 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 blem- 
 ish, — "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 teUing 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, Hving, moving thing. It is not a narra- 
 tive 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 
 
86 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 ckarly, 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 situ- 
 ations 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 de-* 
 pendent upon the character of the man, and while 
 the monologue seems to reverse the natural method 
 in requiring us to conceive of character and situa- 
 tion 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 mean- 
 ing is no longer abstract; it is presented with the 
 Hving witnesses. Persons who want only the mean- 
 ing usually ignore all situation or environment. 
 The co-ordination of many elements is the secret 
 of the peculiar power and force of the monologue. 
 
Argument 87 
 
 The monologue is not unnatural. Life is com- 
 plex, and elements in nature are not found in isola- 
 tion. 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^ rela- 
 tions. In every age the parable, or some other 
 indirect method; has been employed for the sim- 
 plest 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 
 whi<5h 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 interpre- 
 tation of truth, accordingly, demands the presenta- 
 tion 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 hfe." The 
 primary meaning hides itself, that we may take 
 
88 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 account of the witnesses first, for in the mouth of 
 "two or three witnesses every word may be es- 
 tabHshed." 
 
 "The word that he speaks is the man himself." 
 But how rarely do we reahze 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 mono- 
 logue adopts an indirect method. It does not con- 
 cern 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 con- 
 sciously 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 hue : 
 
 "On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round." 
 
 We must perceive, too, the philosophy beneath such 
 words as these: 
 
 **A11 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." 
 
Argument 89 
 
 ** 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; 't is 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. Brown- 
 ing opens and closes the poem with a bracketed 
 passage, and inserts one also in another place. 
 These bracketed hnes 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 perse- 
 cution which came about this time. The dying 
 John is in the cave, near Ephesus, with a boy out- 
 side pretending to care for the sheep, but ready to 
 
90 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 nine- 
 teenth 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 mono- 
 logue. But Browning anticipates this difficulty in 
 part, and gives the atmosphere of the ancient man- 
 uscripts, 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 
 
Argument 91 
 
 spirit in human thinking rather than in human 
 acting, which is shown by the play, these sudden 
 changes of mood or feehng 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 criti- f 
 cisms 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 char- 
 acter 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 sen- 
 suous admiration entirely different from that true 
 love of art which Browning endeavored to inter- 
 pret. To his sons bespeaks 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 
 
92 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 to concentrate attention upon the character of the 
 speaker. 
 
 Ruskin has some important words in his "Mod- 
 ern Painters" upon this poem: "I know no other 
 piece of modern Enghsh, prose or poetry, in which 
 there is so much told as in these lines, of the Re- 
 naissance 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. Brown- 
 ing'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 indica- 
 tive of his character. 
 
 Note the expression of his hate in " Old Gandolf 
 cozened me," though he fought tooth and nail to 
 
Argument 93 
 
 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 re- 
 sumes the conventional whine: 
 
 "Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years." 
 
 Suddenly, with a totally different inflection, he re- 
 turns to the thought of his tomb : 
 
 "Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black — 
 'T was ever antique-black I meant I " 
 
 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, TuUy's every word." 
 
94 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 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 "con- 
 centrated writing" will not need "so much solu- 
 tion" 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 " ; be- 
 cause 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 
 
Argument 95 
 
 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 un- 
 conscious utterance of his hfe 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 at- 
 tention 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 exempli- 
 fies them all. Let us choose for this purpose Brown- 
 ing'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 
 
96 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 w^ent 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." 
 
 IVIY 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, 't was 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, 't was all one ! My favour at her breast, 
 
 The dropping of the daylight in the West, 
 
 The bough of cherries some officious fool 
 
Argument 97 
 
 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 '11 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 '11 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 Kstener 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 
 
98 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 draws the curtain which "none puts by" but him- 
 self, 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 degen- 
 eracy 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 suggest- 
 ive 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, hke 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 ques- 
 tions the whole argument becomes luminous. A 
 company has gathered at the Duke's palace to ar- 
 range 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 act- 
 ing as agent, have stepped aside to consult regard- 
 ing the dowry. The place is chosen by the Duke; 
 
Argument 99 
 
 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 oflBcious 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 lack- 
 eys. 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 an- 
 other. The meaning will be partially apparent 
 from the first; but usually the points will be dis- 
 covered in this sequence. When completed, the 
 whole is as simple as a story. The pompous, con- 
 temptuous 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 de- 
 mands, 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 
 
 LOFC. 
 
100 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 diflB- 
 cult monologues of Browning, or any of the more 
 popular monologues, by the questions given, he 
 will see at once the peculiar character of the mono- 
 logue 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 peculiari- 
 ties 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 w^ith 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 cul- 
 ture 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 mono- 
 
The Monologue as a Form of Literature loi 
 
 logue. The word awakens in most minds only the 
 vaguest conceptions. 
 
 If the monologue be discriminated at all from 
 other forms of hterature, 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 com- 
 pany. But unless the peculiar nature of the mono- 
 logue is understood, much modern verse will fail 
 to produce an adequate impression. 
 
 Like the speech, the monologue imphes one 
 speaker. But an oration implies an audience, a 
 platform, conscious preparation, and a direct and 
 deliberate purpose. The monologue, on the con- 
 trary, 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 
 
102 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 allu- 
 sions 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 Hfe 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 an- 
 other, but it does not express the poet's own feel- 
 ings, 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 con- 
 victions. The monologue expresses the impres- 
 sions which a certain character receives from 
 events or from other people. 
 
 Epic poetry, from its application to an individ- 
 ual 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 expres- 
 sive. Its personations embody universal ideals. 
 Odysseus is not simply a man, but the representa- 
 tive 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 
 
The Monologue as a Form of Literature 103 
 
 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 cor- 
 responding 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 dif- 
 ferent spirit. Even when the same subject is intro- 
 duced, 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 ^he term " dra- 
 matic" 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 
 
104 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 im- 
 pression from the external world which influence 
 the inner nature: or, in fine, the coming into ex- 
 istence 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 representa- 
 tion 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." ^ 
 
 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 con- 
 sideration, and possibly may be found, after all, 
 inadequate. If it refers at all to some of the most 
 important aspects, the reference is vague. Dra- 
 matic art must also include points of view, insight 
 into motives, the nature and necessity of situation, 
 and especially the discovery by one man of an- 
 other's attitude of mind. 
 
 The definition is notable because it does not 
 
 * Freytag, Technik des Dramas, chap, i, sec. 2, p. 16 (Leipzig, 1881). 
 Translation by Prof. H. B. Lathrop. 
 
The Monologue as a Form of Literature 105 
 
 define dramatic art, as is so apt to be the case, by 
 hmitation. When any form of art is defined by 
 hmitation, 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 be- 
 cause 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 sug- 
 gestive of its true nature. Definitions are especially 
 inadequate in our endeavors to perceive the differ- 
 ences 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 mur- 
 dered 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 ''Mac- 
 beth." When these facts were fashioned into a 
 play, the interest was transferred from the events 
 to the characters of the principal individuals con- 
 cerned. Their ambitious motives, their resolu- 
 
io6 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 tion or hesitation to perform the murder, and the j 
 effects of this crime upon them were not only por- 
 trayed 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 repre- 
 sented 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 in- 
 terest. 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, 't is 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. 
 
The Monologue as a Form of Literature 107 
 
 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 bid- 
 ding good-bye. Attention is focussed upon him 
 for a single moment during a single speech. Ob- 
 serve the naturalness of the reference to insignifi- 
 cant 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 hesita- 
 tion, 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 hfe 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 mono- 
 logue. 
 
 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 
 
io8 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 presid- 
 ing at the killing of the victim. This part she re- 
 fuses. 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 wit- 
 ness 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. 
 
The Monologue as a Form of Literature 109 
 
 Vividly he describes the first entrance of the 
 Duchess into the old castle and her desire to trans- 
 figure 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 de- 
 scribes 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 out- 
 side on the balcony until, awakened by her croon- 
 ing 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 
 
no Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 vari- 
 ous processes of passion passing into action, the 
 consequences of action, or the working of the com- 
 plex elements of a human character. 
 
 Professor Dowden in his recent life of Browning, 
 in endeavoring to explain the peculiarities of Brown- 
 ing'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 posi- 
 tion, the latter with characters in movement. Pas- 
 sion and thought may be exhibited and interpreted 
 by dramatic genius of either type; to represent 
 passion and thought and action — action incar- 
 nating and developing thought and passion — the 
 dynamic power is required. And by action we are 
 
The Monologue as a Form of Literature 1 1 1 
 
 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 Brown- 
 ing 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" ("Brown- 
 ing," by Edward Dowden, p. 53). 
 
 The expression "static dramatic" is more appli- 
 cable 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." Brown- 
 ing certainly does in many of his monologues sug- 
 gest 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 develop- 
 ment, explosion, and catastrophe, then the mono- 
 logue 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 mo- 
 tives. It may be the outward and direct effect of 
 one human being upon another, or the result of 
 unconscious influence. 
 
112 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Nor is it mere external action, mere conflicts of 
 men in opposition to each other that reveal char- 
 acter. 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 think- 
 ing 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 Ham- 
 let's inmost thought when alone ? Nay, what is the 
 essence of the spirit of Shakespeare, the most dra- 
 matic of all poets ? Not the plots, frequently bor- 
 rowed 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 tran- 
 scended 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 thrill- 
 ing, interprets human character. Nor does dra- 
 matic 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 dra- 
 
History of the Monologue 113 
 
 matic 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 devel- 
 oped, 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 per- 
 fection, 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, compar- 
 ing it with various poems, ancient and modern, we 
 shall find that the form has been long since antici- 
 pated, 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. 
 
114 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 char- 
 acteristics 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 ideahzed, and ex- 
 presses 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 instinc- 
 tively 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 pubhc readers do, imphes that the lovino- 
 youth is a Mormon. 
 
 Both these poems imply two characters, one 
 speaking, one hstening, and an adequate interpre- 
 tation of each poem must suggest a feehn^ be- 
 tween two human beings. 
 
 cJ^'i,^''. 1^^^ Raleigh's "Reply to Marlowe's 
 Shepherd, the positions of- the hstener and the 
 speaker are simply reversed. 
 
History of the Monologue 115 
 
 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 im- 
 petuous, spontaneous movement of passion subor- 
 dinates or ehminates 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 per- 
 sonal elements in the poem awaken emotion so 
 exalted in its nature that the speaker is uncon- 
 scious of all except his beloved. 
 
 Still there is a shght 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 ele- 
 ment may be an aid, not a hindrance ; it may in- 
 tensify 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 mon- 
 ologue, 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 de- 
 
ii6 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 mands 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? 
 Pry thee, why so pale ? 
 Will, if looking well can't move her. 
 Looking ill prevail ? 
 Pr}i;hee, 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— 1 take her ! " 
 
 This poem imphes a speaker who is laughing at 
 a lover, and both speaker and listener remain dis- 
 tinct. 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 con- 
 tact, revealing not only intense feeling, but some- 
 thing 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 ; 
 
History of the Monologue 117 
 
 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 dramati- 
 cally, 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 noble- 
 ness 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 
 
ii8 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 admira- 
 tion 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 expres- 
 sion 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 man- 
 ner 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'. 
 
History of the Monologue ng 
 
 "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 im- 
 aginary 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 wTote is purely 
 personal. 
 
 The monologue situation was so intensely real- 
 ized 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 
 hstener. Little conception of character is given, 
 and, of course, the lyric element greatly predomi- 
 nates 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 lit- 
 
120 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 erature, we find in lyric poems an increasing preva- 
 lence of the objective or dramatic element. Whit- 
 man'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," "Dra- 
 matic Romances." 
 
 Mr. Palgrave calls "Sally in our Alley," by 
 Carey, "a httle 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 com- 
 pleteness" are due to the fact that it is inform 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 
 
History of the Monologue lai 
 
 imagined as spoken to some sympathetic friend. 
 The necessity of a right conception of the person 
 addressed was not definitely included in the mono- 
 logue until Browning wrote. The character of the 
 speaker in this poem, however, is most definitely 
 drawn, and is the centre of interest. We must ade- 
 quately 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 pic- 
 ture 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 '11 bear it all for Sally ; 
 She is the darling of my heart, 
 
 And she lives in our alley. 
 
122 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 
 
 then I shall have money; 
 I '11 hoard it up, and box it all, 
 
 1 '11 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 '11 marry Sally, — 
 O then we '11 wed, and then we '11 bed. 
 
 But not in our alley ! 
 
 All these poems show the necessity for classifica- 
 tion 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 mono- 
 logue to give definiteness and point. 
 
 The reader, however, must be very careful not 
 to turn lyrics into monologues. The pure lyric 
 
History of the Monologue 123 
 
 should be rendered subjectively, neither as dra- 
 matic, 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 mono- 
 logues 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 classi- 
 fications, 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 com- 
 bined in one poem. 
 
 A pecuhar type of the monologue, found occa- 
 sionally 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 com- 
 panions. 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 dif- 
 ferent 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 
 
124 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Galahad is the speaker, and the poem is in form a 
 monologue, yet to regard him as a mere literal char- 
 acter would make him appear egotistic and boast- 
 ful, 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 mono- 
 logue, it is, nevertheless, allegoric or epic, and the 
 search for the Holy Grail is given in its most sug- 
 gestive 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 discus- 
 sion ; 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 
 
History of the Monologue 125 
 
 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- telHng." 
 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 "Mul6ykeh" 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 re- 
 jected. He steals Pearl by night. Hoseyn is awak- 
 ened 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 pecuhar love 
 of the weeping Hoseyn. 
 
126 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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 CHve'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 gen- 
 eral, when a story receives a distinct coloring from 
 a pecuhar type of character, even though in the 
 form of a narrative, it may be given with advan- 
 tage as a monologue. Its general spirit is best in- 
 terpreted 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 conversa- 
 tion 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 per- 
 meated 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 
 
History of the Monologue 127 
 
 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 ex- 
 tended and elevated. 
 
 We can hardly open a book of modern poetry 
 which is not full of monologues. Kipling's "Bar- 
 rack-Room Ballads" are all monologues. There 
 is a roUicking, 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 cer- 
 tain of his animal stories are practically monologues. 
 What a conception of the camel is awakened by 
 "Oonts!" "Rikki-tikki-tavi" awakens a feehng 
 of sympathy for the little mongoose. In his por- 
 trayal 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 . 
 
128 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 All Kipling's sketches and so-called ditties, or 
 "Barrack- Room Ballads," are practically dramatic 
 monologues. To render vocally or even to under- 
 stand Kipling requires some appreciation of the 
 peculiarities of the monologue. The Duke of Con- 
 naught 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 mono- 
 logue 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 dra- 
 matic 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 char- 
 acter. A British soldier in a specific place, Lon- 
 don, 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 con- 
 trary aids, the realization and expression of a 
 profoundly lyric feeling and spirit. The soldier re- 
 veals his love, — love deeper than racial prejudices. 
 
History of the Monologue 129 
 
 — and though "there aren't no Ten Command- 
 ments " in the land of his beloved, he feels the uni- 
 versal emotion in the human heart, a profound love 
 that is superior to any national bound or racial 
 limit. In the poem this love dominates every- 
 thing, — 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 sud- 
 denness 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 narra- 
 tive monologue, proves its naturalness. 
 
 Many of America's most popular writers have 
 adopted the monologue as their chief mode of ex- 
 pression. 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 in- 
 terest 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 
 
 9 
 
130 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 types of character. The artistic form is the mono- 
 logue, 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 inter- 
 preting 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 un- 
 folds 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 
 
 All the conditions of the monologue are com- 
 plied 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 manag- 
 ing 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 sec- 
 ondary 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 
 
History of the Monologue 131 
 
 its adoption or application may not go on increas- 
 ing 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 im- 
 portance 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 pro- 
 foundly significant. Browning remains the su- 
 preme 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 com- 
 pare 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 study- 
 ing 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, espe- 
 cially one of Browning's great monologues, and 
 
132 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 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, \\hile the mono- 
 logue 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 nine- 
 teenth century, and it is safe to say that it will re- 
 main and occupy a permanent place as a literary 
 form. We must not, however, exaggerate its im- 
 portance 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 w^ith a message and philos- 
 ophy of life, proves that its true nature and possi- 
 bihties deserve study. 
 
PART II 
 
 DRAMATIC RENDERING OF THE 
 MONOLOGUE 
 
 IX. NECESSITY OF ORAL RENDITION 
 
 The monologue, in common with all forms of 
 literature, but especially with the drama, implies 
 something more than words, — only its verbal 
 shell can be printed. As the expression of a living 
 character, it necessarily requires the natural signs 
 of feeling, the modulations of the voice, and the 
 actions of the body. 
 
 After all questions regarding speaker, hearer, 
 person spoken of, place, connection, subject, and 
 meaning have been settled, the real problem of 
 interpretation begins. The result of the reader's 
 study of these questions must be revealed in the 
 first word or phrase he utters as speaker. Since 
 the poem may be unknown to his auditors, each 
 point must be made clear to them, each question 
 answered, by the suggestive modulations of his 
 voice and the expressive action of his body. 
 
 This is the real problem of the dramatic artist, 
 and without its solution he can give no interpreta- 
 tion. The long meditation over a monologue, the 
 serious questionings and comparisons, are not 
 enough. He must have a complete comprehension 
 of all the points enumerated, — but this is only the 
 beginning. He must next discover the bearings of 
 the supposed speaker, the attitude of his mind, his 
 feelings and motives. 
 
134 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 To do this, the reader must carefully study those 
 things which the ^Yriter could only suggest or imply 
 in words. The poem must be re-created in his 
 imagination. His feeling must be more awake, 
 if possible, than that of the author. 
 
 In one sense, the terms "vocal expression" and 
 "vocal interpretation of literature," are a misuse of 
 w^ords. The histrionic presentation of a play is not, 
 strictly speaking, a vocal interpretation, nor an 
 interpretation by action. Vocal modulations, mo- 
 tions, and attitudes, the movements of living men 
 and women, are all implied in the very conception 
 of a drama. The voice and action are only the 
 completion of the play. 
 
 The same is true of the monologue. The ren- 
 dering of it is not an adjunctive performance, not 
 a mere extraneous decoration. It is more than a 
 personal comment; to render a monologue is to 
 make it complete. "Words," said Emerson, "are 
 fossilized poetry." If a monologue is fossihzed 
 poetry, its true rendering should restore the original 
 being to life. The written or printed monologue is 
 like an empty garment, to be understood only as it 
 is worn. A living man inside the garment will 
 show the adaptation of all its parts at once. 
 
 The presentation of a play or of a monologue is 
 its fulfilment, its completion, expressing more fully 
 the conceptions w^hich wxre in the mind of the 
 writer himself, though with the individuality and 
 the true personal realization of another artist. No 
 two Hamlets have ever been alike, nor ever can be 
 alike, unless one of the two is an imitation of the 
 other. Dramatic art implies two artists, — the 
 writer, who gives broad outlines and suggestions; 
 and the living, sympathetic dramatic interpreter, 
 
Necessity of Oral Rendition 135 
 
 who realizes and completes the creation. The 
 author creates a poem and puts it into words, and 
 the vocal interpreter then gives it life. 
 
 A true vocal interpretation of the monologue, 
 as of the play, does not require the changing of 
 one word or syllable used by the author. It is the 
 supplying of the living languages. 
 
 Words and actions are complemental languages. 
 Verbal expression is more or less intellectual. It 
 can be recorded. It names ideas and pictures. 
 It is composed of conventional symbols, and only 
 when the words are understood by another mind 
 can it suggest a true sequence of ideas and events. 
 Vocal expression, however, shows the attitude of 
 the mind of the man towards these ideas. Words 
 are objective symbols of ideas. The modulations 
 of the voice reveal the process of thinking and 
 feeling. The word, then, in all cases, implies the 
 living voice. It is but an external form : the voice 
 reveals the life. Action shows, possibly, even more 
 than tones do, the character of the man, his rela- 
 tions, his "bearings," his impressions or points of 
 view. 
 
 These three languages are, accordingly, living 
 witnesses. One of them is not complete, strictly 
 speaking, without the others, and the artistic ren- 
 dering of a monologue is simply taking the ob- 
 jective third which the author gives, and which can 
 be printed, and supplying the subjective two-thirds 
 which the imagination of the reader must create 
 and realize from the author's suggestion. 
 
 All printed language is but a part of one of these 
 three languages, which belong together in an or- 
 ganic unity. In the very nature of the case, the 
 better the writing, the greater the suggestion of 
 
136 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 the modulations of voice and body. The highest 
 literature is that which suggests life itself, and a 
 living man has a beaming eye, a smiling face, 
 a moving body, and a voice that modulates with 
 every change in idea and feeling. No process has 
 ever been able to record the complexity of these 
 natural languages. Their co-ordination depends 
 upon dramatic instinct. 
 
 As the play always implies dramatic action, as 
 the mind must picture a real scene and the charac- 
 ters must move and speak as animated beings be- 
 fore there can be the least appreciation of its nature 
 as a play, so the monologue also implies and sug- 
 gests a real scene or moment of human life. 
 
 The monologue is an artistic whole, and must be 
 understood as a whole. Each part must be felt to be 
 like the limb of a tree, a part of an organism. As 
 each leaf on the tree quivers with the life hidden in 
 trunk and root, so each word of the monologue must 
 vibrate with the thought and feeling of the whole. 
 
 Hence, the interpreter of the monologue must 
 command all the natural, expressive modulations 
 of voice and body. He must have imagination and 
 insight into human motives, and his voice and body 
 must respond to this insight and understanding. 
 He must know the language of pause, of touch, of 
 change of pitch, of inflection, of the modulation^ 
 of resonance, of changes in movement. He must 
 realize, consciously or subconsciously, the impor- 
 tance of a look, of a turn of the head, of a smile, of 
 a transition of the body, of a motion of the hand; 
 in brief, throughout all the complex parts consti- 
 tuting the bodily organism he should be master of 
 natural action, which appeals directly to the eye 
 and precedes all speech. 
 
Necessity of Oral Rendition 137 
 
 Every inflection must be natural; every varia- 
 tion of pitch must be spontaneous ; every emotion 
 must modulate the color of the voice; every atti- 
 tude of the interpreter must be simple and sus- 
 tained. He must have what is known as the 
 "mercurial temperament" to assume every point 
 of view and assimilate every feeling. 
 
 The first great law of art is consistency, hence 
 all the parts of a higher work of art must inhere, 
 as do all parts of a plant or flower; but this unity 
 and consistency should not be mechanical or arti- 
 ficial. Delivery can never be built; it must grow. 
 True expression must be spontaneous and free. 
 One must enjoy a monologue ; one must live it. 
 Every act or inflection must suggest a dozen others 
 that might be given. The fulness of the life within, 
 in thinking and feeling, must be delicately sug- 
 gested. The most important point to be con- 
 sidered is a suggestion of the reality of hfe and the 
 intensity of feeling. The interpreter must study 
 nature. He must speak as the bird sings, not 
 mechanically, but out of a full heart, yet not cha- 
 otically or from random impulses. All his move- 
 ments must come, like the blooming of the rose^ 
 from within outward ; but this can only result ^ 
 from meditation and command of mind, body, and 
 voice. "Everything in nature," said Carlyle, "has 
 an index finger pointing to something beyond it"; 
 so every phrase, every word, action, or pause, every 
 voice modulation, must have a relation to every 
 other modulation. 
 
 In the art of interpreting the monologue, which 
 is a different art from the writing of one, all must 
 be as much like nature as possible. Yet this like- 
 ness is secured, not by imitation or by reproducing 
 
138 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 external experiences, but by sympathetic identifi- 
 cation and imaginative realization. 
 
 Every art has a technique. The modulations of 
 the voice and the actions of the body must be 
 directly studied, or there can be no naturalness. 
 Meaningless movements and modulations lead to 
 mannerisms. The reader must know the value of 
 every action of voice or body, and so master them 
 that he can bring them all into a kind of sub- 
 conscious unity for the expression of the Uving 
 realization of a thought or situation. 
 
 The interpreter must use no artificial methods, 
 but must study the fundamental principles of the 
 expressive modulations of voice and body and 
 supplement these by a sympathetic observation 
 of nature. 
 
 The questions to be settled by the reader have 
 been shown by the analysis of the structure of the 
 monologue. He must first consider the character 
 which he is to impersonate, and his conception of 
 it must be definite and clear as that of any actor in 
 a play. In one sense, conception of character is 
 more important in the monologue than in the play, 
 on account of the fact that the speaker stands alone, 
 and the monologue is only one end of a conversa- 
 tion. In a play the actor is always associated with 
 others ; has some peculiarity of dress ; has freedom 
 of movement, and his character is shown by others. 
 He is only one of many persons in a moving scene, 
 and often fills a subordinate place. But in the mon- 
 ologue, the interpreter is never subordinate, and 
 has few accessories, or none. He must not only 
 reveal the character that is speaking, but also in- 
 dicate the character of the supposed listener. He 
 must suggest by simple sounds and movements, not 
 
Necessity of Oral Rendition 139 
 
 by make-up or artificial properties. Thus the 
 interpretation of a monologue is more difficult 
 than that of a play. The actor has long periods of 
 listening when another is speaking, so that he has 
 better opportunities to show the impression pro- 
 duced upon him by each idea. The interpreter of 
 a monologue must often show that he, too, is hs- 
 tening, and express the impression received from 
 another. 
 
 To illustrate the necessity of the vocal rendering 
 of a monologue and the peculiar character of the 
 interpretation needed, take one of the simplest 
 examples, a humorous monologue of Douglas Jer- 
 rold's, one of "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures." 
 
 Take, for example, the lecture she gives after 
 Mr. Caudle has lent an umbrella: 
 
 MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE 
 THE FAMILY UMBRELLA 
 
 Bah! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. "What 
 were you to do ? " Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. 
 I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. 
 Take cold, indeed ! He does n't look like one of the sort to take cold. 
 Besides, he 'd have better taken cold than taken our only umbrella. 
 Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say, do you hear the rain ? 
 And as I 'm alive, if it is n't St. Swithin's day ! Do you hear it against 
 the windows? Nonsense; you don't impose upon me. You can't 
 be asleep with such a shower as that ! Do you hear it, I say ? Oh, 
 you do hear it ! Well, that 's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six 
 weeks; and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh ! don't 
 think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't insult me. He return the um- 
 brella ! Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As if any- 
 body ever did return an umbrella ! There — do you hear it ! Worse 
 and worse ! Cats and dogs, and for six weeks, always six weeks. 
 And no umbrella ! 
 
 I should like to know how the children are to go to school to- 
 morrow ? They shan't go through such weather, I 'm determined. 
 
140 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 No ; they shall stop at home and never learn anything — the blessed 
 creatures ! — sooner than go and get wet. And when they grow up, 
 I wonder who they'll have to thank for knowing nothing — who, 
 indeed, but their father ? People who can't feel for their own chil- 
 dren ought never to be fathers. 
 
 But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes, I know very 
 well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow — you 
 knew that; and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me 
 to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't 
 you think it, Mr. Caudle. No, sir ; if it comes down in buckets-full, 
 I '11 go all the more. No; and I won't have a cab. Where do you 
 think the money 's to come from ? You 've got nice high notions at 
 that club of yours. A cab, indeed ! Cost me sixteenpence at least — • 
 sixteenpence, two-and-eight-pence, for there's back again. Cabs, 
 indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em; I can't pay 
 for 'em, and I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do; throwing 
 away your property, and beggaring your children — buying um- 
 brellas ! 
 
 Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle ? I say, do you hear it ? But 
 I don't care — I '11 go to mother's to-morrow ; I will ; and what 's 
 more, I '11 walk every step of the way, — and you know that will give 
 me my death. Don't call me a foolish woman, it 's you that 's the 
 foolish man. You know I can't wear clogs ; and with no umbrella, 
 the wet 's sure to give me a cold — it always does. But what do you 
 care for that ? Nothing at all. I may be laid up, for what you care, 
 as I daresay I shall — and a pretty doctor's bill there '11 be. I hope 
 there will! I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death; yes: and 
 that 's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course ! . . . 
 
 Men, indeed ! — call themselves lords of the creation ! — pretty 
 lords, when they can't even take care of an umbrella ! 
 
 I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that 's 
 what you want — then you may go to your club and do as you like 
 — and then, nicely my poor dear children will be used — but then, 
 sir, you '11 be happy. Oh, don't tell me ! I know you will. Else 
 you 'd never have lent the umbrella ! . . . 
 
 The children, too ! Dear things ! They '11 be sopping wet ; for 
 they shan't stop at home — they shan't lose their learning; it's all 
 their father will leave 'em, I 'm sure. But they shall go to school. 
 Don't tell me I said they should n't : you are so aggravating. Caudle ; 
 you 'd spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school ; mark 
 that. And if they get their deaths of cold, it 's not my fault — I 
 did n't lend the umbrella. 
 
Necessity of Oral Rendition 141 
 
 The peculiar character of Mrs. Caudle must be 
 definitely conceived, and the interpreter must ex- 
 press her feelings and reveal with great emphasis 
 the impressions produced upon her, for these are 
 the very soul of the rendering. The sudden awak- 
 ening of ideas in her mind, or the way she receives 
 an impression, must be definitely shown, for such 
 manifestations are the chief characteristics of a 
 monologue. Such mental action is the one element 
 that makes the delivery of a monologue differ from 
 that of other forms of literature. 
 
 The fact that one end of the conversation is 
 omitted, or only echoed, concentrates our attention 
 upon the workings of Mrs. Caudle's mind. The 
 interpreter must vividly portray the arrival of every 
 idea, the horrors with which she contemplates every 
 successive conjecture. 
 
 The reader must express Mrs. Caudle's aston- 
 ishment after she has found out Mr. Caudle's 
 offence. " * What were you to do .^ '" is no doubt an 
 echo of the question made by Mr. Caudle. Sar- 
 castic surprise possesses her at the very thought of 
 his asking such a question. "Let him go home in 
 the rain, to be sure," is given with positiveness, as 
 if it settled the whole matter. " Take cold, indeed ! " 
 is also, no doubt, a sarcastic echo of Mr. Caudle's 
 words. The abrupt explosion and extreme change 
 from the preceding indicates clearly her repetition 
 of Mr. Caudle's words. The pun: "He'd have 
 better taken cold than taken our umbrella," may 
 sound like a jest, but with Mrs. Caudle it is too 
 sarcastic for a smile. 
 
 Mrs. Caudle must "hear the rain" and appear 
 startled. The thought of the following day causes 
 sudden and extreme change of feeling, face, and 
 
142 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 voice. Her wrath is aroused to a high pitch when 
 Caudle snores or gives some evidence that he is 
 asleep, and she is most abrupt and bitter in : " Non- 
 sense; you don't impose upon me; you can't be 
 asleep with such a shower as that." She repeats 
 her question with emphasis. Then there must 
 have been some groan or assent from poor Caudle, 
 which is shown by a change of pitch and a sarcastic 
 acceptance of his answer, "Oh, you do hear it!" 
 Presently, Mr. Caudle causes another explosion by 
 evidently suggesting that the borrower would re- 
 turn the umbrella, "as if anybody ever did return 
 an umbrella !" 
 
 A dramatic imagination can easily realize the 
 continuity of thought in Mrs. Caudle's mind, her 
 expression of profound grief over the poor children, 
 the sudden thought of " poor mother " that awakens 
 in her the reason for his doing the terrible deed, and 
 her self-pity. Every change must be expressed 
 decidedly, to show the working of her mind. 
 
 Such a monologue is decidedly dramatic, and 
 to interpret it requires vivid imagination, quick 
 perceptions, a realization of the relation of a spe- 
 cific type of character to a distinct situation and the 
 interaction of situation and character upon each 
 other. The interpreter must have a very flexible 
 voice and responsive body. He must have com- 
 mand of the technique of expression and be able to 
 suggest depth of meaning. 
 
 It is easy enough to study a monologue super- 
 ficially, and find its meaning for ourselves in a 
 vague way, suflScient to satisfy us for the moment, 
 but there is necessity for more study when we 
 attempt to make the monologue clear and forcible 
 to others. 
 
Necessity of Oral Rendition 143 
 
 The interpreter will discover, when he tries to 
 read the monologue aloud, that his subjective 
 studies were crude and inconclusive. He will find 
 difficulties in most unexpected places ; but as he 
 contemplates the work with dramatic instinct, or im- 
 aginative and sympathetic attention to each point, 
 new light will dawn upon him. There is need al- 
 ways for great power of accentuation. Discoveries 
 should be sudden, and the connections vigorously 
 sustained. The modulations of the voice must 
 often be extreme, while yet suggesting the utmost 
 naturalness. 
 
 The length and abruptness of the inflections 
 must change very suddenly. There must be breaks 
 in the thought, with a startled discovery of many 
 points, and extreme changes in pitch to show these. 
 Some parts should go very slowly, while others 
 should have great quickness of movement. 
 
 Any serious monologue will serve to illustrate 
 the necessity of vocal expression for its interpreta- 
 tion. Take, for example. Browning's "Tray, ' and 
 express the strong contrasts by the voice. 
 
 TRAY 
 
 Sing me a hero ! Quench my thirst 
 Of soul, ye bards! 
 
 Quoth Bard the first: 
 *'Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don 
 His helm and eke his habergeon ..." 
 Sir Olaf and his bard. — ! 
 
 "That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard the second), 
 "That eye wide ope as though Fate beckoned 
 My hero to some steep, beneath 
 Which precipice smiled tempting Death. ..." 
 You too without your host have reckoned ! 
 
144 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 ** A beggar-child " (let 's hear this third !) 
 *'Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird 
 Sang to herself at careless play, 
 And fell into the stream. ' Dismay ! 
 Help, you the stander-by ! ' None stirred. 
 
 "Bystanders reason, think of wives 
 And children ere they risk their lives. 
 Over the balustrade has bounced 
 A mere instinctive dog, and pounced 
 Plumb on his prize. ' How w^ell he dives ! 
 
 '"Up he comes with the child, see, tight 
 In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite 
 A depth of ten feet — twelve, I bet ! 
 Good dog ! What, off again .? There 's yet 
 Another child to save ? All right ! 
 
 '"How strange we saw no other fall! 
 It's instinct in the animal. 
 Good dog ! But he 's a long while under : 
 If he got drowned I should not wonder — 
 Strong current, that against the wall ! 
 
 "'Here he comes, holds in mouth this time 
 
 — What may the thing be t Well, that 's prime ! 
 
 Now, did you ever ? Reason reigns 
 
 In man alone, since all Tray's pains 
 
 Have fished — the child's doll from the slime ! ' 
 
 "And so, amid the laughter gay, 
 Trotted my hero off, — old Tray, — 
 Till somebody, prerogatived 
 With reason, reasoned : ' Why he dived, 
 His brain would show us, I should say. 
 
 '"John, go and catch — or, if needs be. 
 
 Purchase that animal for me ! 
 
 By vivisection, at expense 
 
 Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence, 
 
 How brain secretes dog's soul, we '11 see ! ' " 
 
 This short poem well illustrates Browning's pecu- 
 liar spirit and earnestness, and also the strong hold 
 
Necessity of Oral Rendition 145 
 
 which his chosen dramatic form had upon him. 
 It was written as a protest against vivisection. 
 Browning represents the speaker as one seeking for 
 an expression among the poets of the true heroic 
 spirit. **Bard the first" opens with the traditions 
 and spirit of knighthood, but the speaker interrupts 
 him suddenly in the midst of his first sentence, 
 implying by his tone of disgust that such views of 
 heroism are out of date. 
 
 The second bard begins in the spirit of a later 
 age, 
 
 *"That sin-scathed brow . . . 
 That eye wide ope, . . .' " 
 
 and starts to portray a hero facing death on some 
 precipice, but the speaker again interrupts. He 
 is equally dissatisfied with this type of hero found 
 in the pages of Byron or Bret Harte. 
 
 When the third begins — "A beggar child," — 
 the speaker indicates a sudden interest, "let's hear 
 this third!" The speech of the third bard must be 
 given with greater interest and simplicity, and in 
 accordance with the spirit of the age, — the change 
 from the extravagant to the perfectly simple and 
 true, from the giant in his mail, or the desperado, 
 to just a little child and a dog. 
 
 Approval and tenderness should be shown by the 
 modulations of the voice. Long, abrupt inflections 
 express the excitement resulting from the discovery 
 that the child has fallen into the stream, "Dismay ! 
 Help." Then observe the sarcastic reference to 
 human selfishness, and, in tender contrast to the 
 action of the bystanders, old Tray is introduced, 
 followed by the remarks of the on- lookers and their 
 patronizing description of the dog's conduct. 
 Notice that the quotation is long, and that the point 
 
 10 
 
146 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 of view of the careless bystanders is preserved. The 
 spirit of these bystanders is given in their own 
 words until they laugh at old Tray's pains and 
 blind instinct in fishing up the child's doll from the 
 stream. Now follows the real spirit of bard the 
 third, who portrays the sympathetic admiration for 
 the dog. 
 
 *"And so, amid the laughter gay/ " 
 
 requires a sudden change of key and tone- color to 
 express the intensity of feeling and the general 
 appreciation of the mystery of "a mere instinctive 
 dog." 
 
 The poem closes with an example of the cold, 
 analytic spirit of the age, that hopes to settle the 
 deepest problems merely by experiment. 
 
 *"By vivisection, at expense. 
 
 Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence. 
 
 How brain secretes dog's soul, we '11 see ! ' " 
 
 The student will soon discover that the mono- 
 logue is not only a new literary or poetic form, but 
 that it demands a new histrionic method of repre- 
 sentation. 
 
 The monologue should be taken seriously. It is 
 not an accidental form, the odd freak of some pe- 
 culiar writer. Browning has said that he never 
 intended his poetry to be a substitute for an after- 
 dinner cigar. A similar statement is true of all 
 great monologues. A few so-called monologues on 
 a low plane can be understood and rendered by 
 any one. Every form of dramatic art has its cari- 
 cature and perversion. Burlesque seems necessary 
 as a caricature of all forms of dramatic art and so 
 there are burlesques of monologues. These, how- 
 ever, must not blind the eyes to the existence of 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 147 
 
 monologues on the highest plane. Many mono- 
 logues, though short and seemingly simple, probe 
 the profoundest depths of the human soul. Such 
 require patient study ; imagination, sympathetic 
 insight, and passion are all necessary in their 
 interpretation. 
 
 X. ACTIONS OF MIND AND VOICE 
 
 The complex and difficult language of vocal ex- 
 pression cannot, of course, be explained in such a 
 book as this, but there are a few points which are 
 of especial moment in considering the monologue. 
 
 All vocal expression is the revelation of the proc- 
 esses of thinking or the elemental actions of the 
 mind. The meaning of the expressive modulations 
 of the voice must be gained from a study of the 
 actions of the mind and their expression in common 
 conversation. While words are conventional sym- 
 bols, modulations of the voice are natural signs, 
 which accompany the pronunciation of words, and 
 are necessary elements of natural speech. 
 
 Such expressive modulations of the voice as in- 
 flections are developed in the child before words. 
 Hence, vocal expression can never be acquired from 
 mechanical rules or by imitation. As the mono- 
 logue reveals primarily the thinking and feeling 
 of a living character, it affords a very important 
 means of studying vocal expression. 
 
 In all dramatic work there is a temptation to 
 assume merely outward bearings and characteris- 
 tics, attitudes, and tones without making the char- 
 acter think. The monologue is a direct revelation 
 of the mind and can be interpreted only by natu- 
 rally expressing the thought. 
 
148 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 The interpreter of the monologue must reveal 
 the point of view of his character, and must show the 
 awakening or arrival of every idea. All changes in 
 point of view, the simplest transitions in feeling 
 and impressions produced by an idea, must be sug- 
 gested. The mental life, in short, must be genu- 
 inely and definitely revealed by the actions of voice 
 and body. 
 
 The first sign or expression of life is rhythm. 
 All life begins and ends in rhythm, and accordingly, 
 rhythm is the basis of all naturalness. In vocal 
 expression the rhythmic process of thinking, the 
 successive focussing and leaping of the mind from 
 idea to idea, must be revealed by the rhythmic alter- 
 nation in speech of pause and touch. 
 
 Without these, genuine thinking cannot be ex- 
 pressed in speaking. The pause indicates the stay 
 of attention ; the touch locates or aflfirms the centre 
 of concentration. The mind receives an impression 
 in silence, and speech follows as a natural result. 
 
 The interpretation of a poem or any work of liter- 
 ature demands an intensifying of the processes of 
 thinking, and the pause and touch constitute the 
 language by which this increase of thinking is ex- 
 pressed. A language is always necessary to the 
 completion or, at least, to the accentuation of, any 
 mental action. The impression received from each 
 successive idea must be so vivid as to dominate the 
 rhythm of breathing, and the expansion and other 
 actions of the body. 
 
 The progressive movement of mind from idea to 
 idea implies consequent variation and discrimina- 
 tion more or less vigorous. This is revealed by 
 change of pitch in passing from idea to idea or 
 phrase to phrase, and the extent of this variation is. 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 149 
 
 due, as a rule, to the degree of discrimination in 
 thinking. 
 
 In the employment of these three modulations, 
 pause, touch, and change of pitch, each implies the 
 others. The degree of change in pitch and the 
 vigor of touch justify the length of pause. Length- 
 ening the pause without increasing the touch 
 suggests tameness, sluggishness, or dullness of 
 thought. 
 
 Notice the long pauses, the intense strokes of the 
 voice, and the decided changes of pitch harmoni- 
 ously accentuated, which are employed to indicate 
 the depth of passion in rendering "In a Year" 
 (p. 201). Pauses are of special importance in a 
 monologue. This woman shows by long pauses and 
 abrupt changes her struggle to comprehend the real 
 meaning of the coldness of the man whom she 
 loves, — to whom she has given all. The touch and 
 the changes of pitch show the abruptness and the 
 intensity of her passion. 
 
 The careful student will further perceive an in- 
 flection in conversation, or change of pitch, during 
 the utterance of the central vowel of each word, and 
 a longer inflection in the word standing for a central 
 idea. Inflections show the relations of ideas to each 
 other, the logical method, the relative value of 
 centres of attention, and the like. Marked changes 
 of topics, for example, will be indicated by a long 
 inflection upon the key- word. 
 
 In rendering Browning's "One Way of Love," 
 the word "rose" in the first line is given saliency. 
 It is the centre of his first effort. Note the long 
 pause followed by decided rising inflections on the 
 words : 
 
 "She will not turn aside? . . ." 
 
150 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 succeeded by a pause with a firm fall, — 
 
 "Alas! 
 Let them lie. ..." 
 
 In the second stanza, note the faUing inflection 
 upon "lute," which introduces a new theme, a new 
 endeavor to win her love. Then follows another 
 disappointment with suspensive or rising inflections 
 denoting surprise with agitation, and then new real- 
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE 
 
 All June I bound the rose in sheaves. 
 Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves 
 And strow them where Pauline may pass. 
 She will not turn aside ? Alas ! 
 Let them lie. Suppose they die ? 
 The chance was they might take her eye. 
 
 How many a month I strove to suit 
 These stubborn fingers to the lute ! 
 To-day I venture all I know. 
 She will not hear my music ? So ! 
 Break the string; fold music's wing: 
 Suppose Pauline had bade me sing ! 
 
 My whole life long I learn 'd to love. 
 
 This hour my utmost art I prove 
 
 And speak my passion — heaven or hell ? 
 
 She will not give me heaven } 'T is well ! 
 
 Lose who may — I still can say, 
 
 Those who win heaven, bless 'd are they ! 
 
 ization of failure with a falling inflection indicating 
 submission. The same is true of the word "love" 
 in the last stanza which brings one to the climax of 
 the poem. This has a long, firm falling inflection. 
 Note the suspensive intense rise upon "heaven" 
 and the faUing on "hell." The question: 
 
 "She will not give me heaven? ..." 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 151 
 
 reiterates the earlier questions, only with greater 
 grief and intensity. The character of his *'love," 
 which a poor reader may slight, neglect, or wholly 
 pervert, must suggest the nobility of the man, and 
 the last words must reveal his intensity, tenderness, 
 and, especially, his self-control and hopeful dignity. 
 Note in Browning's "Confessions" (p. 7) that 
 the rising inflections on the first words indicate 
 doubt or uncertainty, and seem to say, "Did I hear 
 aright.^" But the firm falling inflection in the 
 answer, 
 
 *'Ah, reverend sir, not I!'* 
 
 indicates that the speaker has settled the doubt 
 and now expresses his protest against such a view 
 of life. The inflections after this become more 
 colloquial. 
 
 There is, however, still a suggestion of earnestness 
 as the description continues until at the last a de- 
 cided inflection on the word "sweet" expresses his 
 real conviction. Though life may appear but vanity 
 to his listener, such is not his experience. The 
 modulations of the voice in speaking "sad and bad 
 and mad" can show that they embody his hearers' 
 opinions and convictions, not his own, and "it was 
 sweet!" can be given to show that they are his 
 own. 
 
 Inflection, especially in union with pause, serves 
 an important function in indicating the saliency of 
 specific ideas or words. Note, for example, in 
 Browning's "The Italian in England" that in the 
 phrase "That second time they hunted me," there 
 is a specific emphasis on "second." This word 
 shows that he is talking of his many trials when in 
 Italy and the narrowness of his escape, while also 
 indicating some other time when he was hunted by 
 
152 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 the Austrians. This sentence, and especially this 
 word "second," should be mven the pointedness of 
 conversation, and then wnl naturally follow the 
 account of his escape. 
 
 In this poem, Browning suggests what difficulties 
 were encountered by the Italian patriots who 
 labored to free their country from Austrian rule. It 
 is a strange and unique story told in London to some 
 one who is planning with the speaker for Italian 
 liberty. 
 
 THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND 
 
 That second time they hunted me 
 
 From hill to plain, from shore to sea, 
 
 And Austria, hounding far and wide 
 
 Her blood-hounds thro' the country-side. 
 
 Breathed hot an instant on my trace, — 
 
 I made, six days, a hiding-place 
 
 Of that dry green old aqueduct 
 
 Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked 
 
 The fire-flies from the roof above. 
 
 Bright creeping thro' the moss they love: 
 
 — How long it seems since Charles was lost ! 
 
 Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed 
 
 The country in my very sight; 
 
 And when that peril ceased at night. 
 
 The sky broke out in red dismay 
 
 With signal-fires. Well, there I lay 
 
 Close covered o'er in my recess. 
 
 Up to the neck in ferns and cress. 
 
 Thinking on Metternich our friend, 
 
 And Charles's miserable end. 
 
 And much beside, two days; the third. 
 
 Hunger o'ercame me when I heard 
 
 The peasants from the village go 
 
 To work among the maize; you know. 
 
 With us in Lombardy, they bring 
 
 Provisions packed on mules, a string 
 
 With little bells that cheer their task. 
 
 And casks, and boughs on every cask 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 153 
 
 To keep the sun's heat from the wine; 
 These I let pass in jingKng Hne, 
 And, close on them, dear, noisy crew, 
 The peasants from the village, too; 
 For at the very rear would troop 
 Their wives and sisters in a group 
 To help, I knew. When these had passed, 
 I threw my glove to strike the last, 
 Taking the chance : she did not start, 
 Much less cry out, but stooped apart. 
 One instant rapidly glanced round. 
 And saw me beckon from the ground. 
 A wild bush grows and hides my crypt; 
 She picked my glove up while she stripped 
 A branch off, then rejoined the rest 
 With that; my glove lay in her breast. 
 Then I drew breath; they disappeared: 
 It was for Italy I feared. 
 
 An hour, and she returned alone 
 Exactly where my glove was thrown. 
 Meanwhile came many thoughts: on me 
 Rested the hopes of Italy. 
 I had devised a certain tale 
 Which, when 't was told her, could not fail 
 Persuade a peasant of its truth; 
 I meant to call a freak of youth 
 This hiding, and give hopes of pay. 
 And no temptation to betray. 
 But when I saw that woman's face. 
 Its calm simplicity of grace. 
 Our Italy's own attitude 
 In which she walked thus far, and stood. 
 Planting each naked foot so firm. 
 To crush the snake and spare the worm — 
 At first sight of her eyes, I said, 
 "I am that man upon whose head 
 They fix the price, because I hate 
 The Austrians over us; the State 
 Will give you gold — oh, gold so much ! — 
 If you betray me to their clutch. 
 And be your death, for aught I know. 
 
154 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 If once they find you saved their foe. 
 
 Now, you must bring me food and drink, 
 
 And also paper, pen and ink. 
 
 And carry safe what I shall write 
 
 To Padua, which you '11 reach at night 
 
 Before the duomo shuts; go in. 
 
 And wait till Tenebrse begin; 
 
 Walk to the third confessional, 
 
 Between the pillar and the wall. 
 
 And kneeling whisper, 'Whence comes peace?' 
 
 Say it a second time, then cease; 
 
 And if the voice inside returns, 
 
 'Front Christ and Freedom; what concerns 
 
 The cause of Peace?" for answer, slip 
 
 My letter where you placed your lip; 
 
 Then come back happy we have done 
 
 Our mother service — I, the son. 
 
 As you the daughter of our land ! " 
 
 Three mornings more, she took her stand 
 In the same place, with the same eyes: 
 I was no surer of sun-rise 
 Than of her coming. We conferred 
 Of her own prospects, and I heard 
 She had a lover — stout and tall. 
 She said — then let her eyelids fall, 
 "He could do much " — as if some doubt 
 Entered her heart, — then, passing out, 
 "She could not speak for others, who 
 Had other thoughts ; herself she knew : " 
 And so she brought me drink and food. 
 After four days, the scouts pursued 
 Another path; at last arrived 
 The help my Paduan friends contrived 
 To furnish me: she brought the news. 
 For the first time I could not choose 
 But kiss her hand, and lay my own 
 Upon her head — "This faith was shown 
 To Italy, our mother, she 
 Uses my hand and blesses thee." 
 She followed down to the sea-shore; 
 I left and never saw her more. 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 
 
 How very long since I have thought 
 Concerning — much less wished for — aught 
 Beside the good of Italy. 
 For which I live and mean to die ! 
 I never was in love; and since 
 Charles proved false, what shall now convince 
 My inmost heart I have a friend ? 
 However, if I pleased to spend 
 Real wishes on myself — say, three — 
 I know at least what one should be 
 I would grasp Metternich until 
 I felt his red wet throat distil 
 In blood thro' these two hands. And next, 
 
 — Nor much for that am I perplexed — 
 Charles, perjured traitor, for his part. 
 Should die slow of a broken heart 
 Under his new employers. Last 
 
 — Ah, there, what should I wish ? For fast 
 Do I grow old and out of strength. 
 
 If I resolved to seek at length 
 My father's house again, how scared 
 They all would look, and unprepared ! 
 My brothers live in Austria's pay 
 
 — Disowned me long ago, men say ; 
 And all my early mates who used 
 To praise me so — perhaps induced 
 More than one early step of mine — 
 Are turning wise : while some opine 
 "Freedom grows license," some suspect 
 "Haste breeds delay," and recollect 
 They always said, such premature 
 Beginnings never could endure ! 
 
 So, with a sullen "All's for best," 
 The land seems settling to its rest. 
 I think then, I should wish to stand 
 This evening in that dear, lost land. 
 Over the sea the thousand miles 
 And know if yet that woman smiles 
 With the calm smile; some little farm 
 She lives in there, no doubt: what harm 
 If I sat on the door-side bench. 
 And while her spindle made a trench 
 
 155 
 
156 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Fantastically in the dust, 
 Inquired of all her fortunes — just 
 Her children's ages and their names. 
 And what may be the husband's aims 
 For each of them. I 'd talk this out, 
 And sit there, for an hour about. 
 Then kiss her hand once more, and lay 
 Mine on her head, and go my way. 
 
 So much for idle wishing — how 
 It steals the time ! To business now. 
 
 The conversation takes place preliminary "to 
 business." It is a fine example of the monologue 
 for many reasons. It takes simply a single moment 
 in life, a moment in this case when a turn is made 
 from serious business into personal experiences. 
 The speaker is probably waiting for other reformers 
 to take active measures for the liberation of his 
 country. In this moment, seemingly wasted, light 
 is thrown upon the inner life of this patriot. 
 
 This beautiful example of Browning's best work 
 will serve as a good illustration of the force and 
 power of a monologue to interpret life and char- 
 acter and also the elements necessary to its delivery. 
 The student will do well to thoroughly master it, 
 noting every emphatic word and the necessity of 
 long pauses and sahent inflections to make manifest 
 the inner thought and feeling of this man. 
 
 From such a theme some may infer that the mon- 
 ologue portrays accidental parts of human life, but 
 Browning in this poem has given deep insight into 
 a great struggle for liberty. Such irrelevant words 
 spoken even on the verge of what seems to us the 
 greater business of life may more definitely indicate 
 character, and on account of the fact that they 
 spring up spontaneously may reveal men more com- 
 pletely than when they proceed "to business." 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 
 
 157 
 
 Note the importance of inflection in "Wanting 
 is — what ? " In giving " Wanting is — " there is a 
 suspensive action of the voice with an abrupt pause, 
 as if the speaker were going to continue with " every- 
 where" or something of the kind. The dash helps 
 to indicate this. The idea is still incomplete, when 
 the attitude of the mind totally changes, and he 
 gives a very strong and abrupt rise in "what," as 
 if to say : " Will you. Browning, with your opti- 
 mistic beliefs, utter a note of despair.^" The un- 
 derstanding of the whole poem, of the passing from 
 one point of view to another, depends upon the way 
 in which this abrupt change of thought in the first 
 short line is given by the voice. 
 
 WANTING IS — WHAT? 
 
 Wanting is — what ? 
 
 Summer redundant, 
 
 Blueness abundant, — 
 
 Where is the blot? 
 Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same, — 
 Framework which waits for a picture to frame : 
 What of the leafage, what of the flower ? 
 Roses embowering with naught they embower ! 
 Come then, complete incompletion, O Comer, 
 Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer ! 
 
 Breathe but one breath 
 
 Rose-beauty above. 
 
 And all that was death 
 
 Grows life, grows love, 
 Grows love ! 
 
 Change of point of view, situation, or emotion 
 is revealed by a change in the modulation of the 
 resonance of the voice, or tone- color. In this poem, 
 note the joyous, confident feeling in the short lines, 
 beginning with the word "what," then after a long 
 pause, the change in key and resonance to the re- 
 
158 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 gret and despair expressed in the first of the long 
 hnes. Then there is a passing to a point of view 
 above both the optimistic and pessimistic attitudes 
 which have been contrasted. This truer attitude 
 accepts the dark facts, but sees deeper than the 
 external, and prays for the "Comer" and the trans- 
 figuring of all despair and death into life and love. 
 
 Note also the importance of pause after a long 
 falling inflection on the word "roses " to indicate an 
 answer to the previous question. The first two 
 words of the poem, this word, and the contrast of 
 the three moods by tone- color are the chief points 
 in the interpretation. 
 
 Read over again also "One Way of Love" 
 (p. 150), and note that there are not merely changes 
 in inflection in passing from the successive ques- 
 tions and from disappointment to acquiescence, but 
 change also in the texture or tone-color of the voice. 
 This contrast in tone- color becomes still more 
 marked in the last stanza between the vigorous 
 suspense and disappointment in 
 
 "She will not give me heaven? ..." 
 
 and the heroic resignation of "'Tis well!" with a 
 change of key still more marked. Between these 
 clauses there is a long pause and an extreme change 
 of pitch which are suggestive of the intensity of his 
 sorrow as well as of the nobility and dignity of his 
 character. He does not exclaim contemptuously, 
 that "the grapes are green." 
 
 Everywhere we find that changes in situation, 
 dramatic points of view, imaginative relations, 
 sympathetic attitudes of mind, or feeling resulting 
 from whatever cause, are expressed by correspond- 
 ing changes in the modulations of the texture or 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 
 
 159 
 
 resonance of the tone, which may here be called 
 tone- color. 
 
 One of the most elemental characteristics of con- 
 versation is the flexible variation of the successive 
 rhythmic pulsations, that is to say, the movement. 
 This variation is especially necessary in all dra- 
 matic expression. One clause will move very 
 slowly, and show deliberative thinking, impor- 
 tance, weight, a more dignified point of view or firm 
 control ; another will be given rapidly, as indicative 
 of triviality, mere formality, uncontrollable excite- 
 ment, lack of weight and sympathy, or of subordi- 
 nation and disparagement. A slow movement 
 indicates what is weighty and important; a rapid 
 one excitement or what is unimportant. 
 
 These are the elements of naturalness or the 
 expressive modulations of the voice in every- day 
 conversation. For the rendering of no other form 
 of literature is the study and mastery of these ele- 
 ments so necessary as in that of the monologue. 
 Monologues are so infinitely varied in character, 
 they reproduce so definitely all the elements of con- 
 versation, even requiring them to be accentuated; 
 they embody such sudden transitions in thought 
 and feeling, such contrasts in the attitude of the 
 mind, that a thorough command of the voice is 
 necessary for their interpretation. 
 
 Not only must the modulations of the voice be 
 studied to render the monologue, but a thorough 
 study of the monologue becomes a great help in 
 developing power in vocal expression. Because of 
 the necessary accentuation of otherwise overlooked 
 points in vocal expression, the orator or the teacher, 
 the reader or the actor, can be led to understand 
 and realize more adequately those expressive mod- 
 
i6o Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 ulations upon the mastery of which all naturalness 
 in speaking depends. 
 
 Not only must we appreciate the distinct mean- 
 ing of each of these modulations, but also that of 
 their combination and degrees of accentuation, 
 which indicate marked transitions in feeling and 
 situation. In fact, no voice modulation is ever 
 perceived in isolation. They may not all be found 
 in a sentence, but some of them cannot be present 
 without others. For example, touch is meaningless 
 without pause, and a pause is justified by change 
 of pitch. Inflection and change of pitch constitute 
 the elements of vocal form which reveal thought, 
 and all combine with tone- color and movement, 
 which reveal feeling and experience. Naturalness 
 is the right union and combination of all the 
 modulations. 
 
 MEMORABILIA 
 
 Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, 
 And did he stop and speak to you, 
 
 And did you speak to him again ? 
 How strange it seems, and new ! 
 
 But you were living before that. 
 
 And also you are living after; 
 And the memory I started at — 
 
 My starting moves your laughter ! 
 
 I crossed a moor, with a name of its own 
 And a certain use in the world, no doubt, 
 
 Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone 
 'Mid the blank miles round about: 
 
 For there I picked up on the heather 
 
 And there I put inside my breast 
 A moulted feather, an eagle-feather ! 
 
 Well, I forget the rest. 
 
 Read over any short monologue several times 
 and satisfactorily locate and define the meaning 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice i6i 
 
 of each of these modulations. Observe also the 
 great variety of changes among these modulations 
 and their necessary union for right interpretation. 
 
 Take for example " Memorabilia," one of Brown- 
 ing's shortest monologues, and observe in every 
 phrase the nature and necessity of these modula- 
 tions of the voice. 
 
 The reading of a volume of Shelley is said to have 
 greatly influenced Browning when a boy, and this 
 monologue is a tribute to that poet. Some lover of 
 Shelley, possibly Browning himself, meets one who 
 has seen Shelley face to face. He is agitated at the 
 thought of facing one who had been in the presence 
 of that marvellous man. Note the abrupt inflec- 
 tions, the quick movement indicating excitement, 
 the decided touches, and animated changes of 
 pitch. 
 
 At the seventh line a great break is indicated by 
 a dash. The speaker seems to be going on to say : 
 "The memory I started at must have been the 
 greatest event of your life." But as he notes the 
 action of the other, the contemptuous smile at his 
 enthusiasm, perhaps a sarcastic remark about 
 Shelley, there is a sudden, abrupt pause after 
 "started at" which is given with a rising or sus- 
 pensive inflection. "My starting" has extreme 
 change in pitch, color, and movement. Astonish- 
 ment is mingled with disappointment and grief. 
 Then follows a still greater transition. In the last 
 eight lines of the poem, the speaker, after a long 
 pause, possibly turning slightly away from the other 
 and becoming more subjective, in a slow move- 
 ment and a total change of tone- color, pays a 
 noble, poetic, and grateful tribute to the object of 
 his admiration. He carefully weighs every word, 
 
 11 
 
1 62 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 and accentuates his thought with long pauses, and 
 decided touches upon the words. He gives " moor " 
 a long falling inflection, pausing after it to suggest 
 that he meant more than a moor, possibly all 
 modern or English literature or poetry. He adds 
 
 *'. . . with a name of its own 
 And a certain use in the world, no doubt," 
 
 as a reference to English poetry or literature and 
 to show that he was not ignorant of its beauties and 
 glories. Still stronger emphasis should be given to 
 "hand's-breadth," with a pause after it, subordi- 
 nating the next words, for he is trying to bring his 
 listener indirectly up to the thought of Shelley. 
 "Miles" may also receive an accent in contrast to 
 " hand's-breadth." Then there is great tenderness : 
 
 *'For there I picked up . . ." 
 
 Note the change in the resonance of the voice and 
 the low and dignified movement. There is a long 
 inflection, followed by a pause on the word 
 "feather" and a still longer one on the word 
 "eagle." Now follows another extreme transition. 
 Thought and feeling change. He comes back to 
 the familiarity of conversation. He shows uncer- 
 tainty or hesitation by inflection and a long pause 
 after the word "Well." He has no word of dispar- 
 agement of other writers, but simply adds, 
 
 "Well, I forget the rest." 
 
 All else is forgotten in contemplating that one 
 precious "feather" which is, of course, Shelley's 
 poetry. 
 
 It is impossible to indicate in words all the mental 
 and emotional actions, or the modulations of the 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 163 
 
 voice necessary to express them. The more com- 
 plex the imaginative conditions, the more all these 
 modulations are combined. Notice that change of 
 movement, of key, and also of tone-color combine 
 to express extreme changes in situation, feeling, or 
 direction of attention. When there is a very strong 
 emphatic inflection, there is usually an emphatic 
 pause after it. Wherever there is a long pause there 
 is always a salient change of pitch or some variation 
 in the expression to justify it. After an emphatic 
 pause when words are closely connected, there is 
 always a decided subordination, and thus a whole 
 sentence, or, by a series of such changes, an entire 
 poem, is given unity of atmosphere, coloring, and 
 form. 
 
 No rules can be laid down for such artistic ren- 
 dering; for the higher the poetry and the deeper 
 the feeling, the less applicable is any so-called rule. 
 Only the deepest principles can be of lasting use. 
 
 Take, for example, Browning's epilogue to " The 
 Two Poets of Croisic," printed also by him in his 
 book of selections under the title of "A Tale:" 
 
 A TALE 
 
 What a pretty tale you told me 
 
 Once upon a time 
 — Said you found it somewhere (scold me !) 
 
 Was it prose or was it rhyme, 
 Greek or Latin ? Greek, you said. 
 While your shoulder propped my head. 
 
 Anyhow there 's no forgetting 
 
 This much if no more. 
 That a poet (pray, no petting !) 
 
 Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, 
 Went where suchlike used to go, 
 Singing for a prize, you know. 
 
164 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Well, he had to sing, nor merely 
 
 Sing but play the lyre; 
 Playing was important clearly 
 
 Quite as singing: I desire. 
 Sir, you keep the fact in mind 
 For a purpose that 's behind. 
 
 There stood he, while deep attention 
 Held the judges round, 
 
 — Judges able, I should mention. 
 To detect the slightest sound 
 
 Sung or played amiss: such ears 
 Had old judges, it appears ! 
 
 None the less he sang out boldly, 
 
 Played in time and tune, 
 Till the judges, weighing coldly 
 
 Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, 
 Sure to smile "In vain one tries 
 Picking faults out: take the prize!" 
 
 When, a mischief ! Were they seven 
 
 Strings the lyre possessed ? 
 Oh, and afterwards eleven. 
 
 Thank you ! Well, sir, — who had guessed 
 Such ill luck in store ? — it happed 
 One of those same seven strings snapped. 
 
 All was lost, then ! No ! a cricket 
 (What "cicada"? Pooh!) 
 
 — Some mad thing that left its thicket 
 For mere love of music — flew 
 
 With its little heart on fire. 
 Lighted on the crippled lyre. 
 
 So that when (Ah joy !) our singer 
 
 For his truant string 
 Feels with disconcerted finger. 
 
 What does cricket else but fling 
 Fiery heart forth, sound the note 
 Wanted by the throbbing throat ? 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 165 
 
 Ay and, ever to the ending, 
 
 Cricket chirps at need. 
 Executes the hand's intending, 
 
 Promptly, perfectly, — indeed 
 Saves the singer from defeat 
 With her chirrup low and sweet. 
 
 Till, at ending, all the judges ^ 
 
 Cry with one assent 
 "Take the prize — a prize who grudges 
 
 Such a voice and instrument ? 
 Why, we took your lyre for harp. 
 So it shrilled us forth F sharp ! " 
 
 Did the conqueror spurn the creature. 
 
 Once its service done ? 
 That 's no such uncommon feature 
 
 In the case when Music's son 
 Finds his Lotte's power too spent 
 For aiding soul-development. 
 
 No ! This other, on returning 
 
 Homeward, prize in hand. 
 Satisfied his bosom's yearning: 
 
 (Sir, I hope you understand !) 
 — Said "Some record there must be 
 Of this cricket's help to me ! " 
 
 So, he made himself a statue: 
 
 Marble stood, life-size; 
 On the lyre, he pointed at you, 
 
 Perched his partner in the prize; 
 Never more apart you found 
 Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. 
 
 That 's the tale : its application ? 
 
 Somebody I know 
 Hopes one day for reputation 
 
 Thro' his poetry that 's — Oh, 
 All so learned and so wise 
 And deserving of a prize ! 
 
1 66 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 If he gains one, will some ticket, 
 
 When his statue 's built, 
 Tell the gazer '"T was a cricket 
 
 Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt 
 Sweet and low, when strength usurped 
 Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? 
 
 "For as victory was nighest, 
 
 While I sang and played, — 
 With my lyre at lowest, highest, 
 
 Right alike, — one string that made 
 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain. 
 Never to be heard again, — 
 
 "Had not a kind cricket fluttered, 
 
 Perched upon the place 
 Vacant left, and duly uttered 
 
 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass 
 Asked the treble to atone 
 For its somewhat sombre drone." 
 
 But you don't know music ! Wherefore 
 
 Keep on casting pearls 
 To a — poet ? All I care for 
 
 Is — to tell him that a girl's 
 "Love" comes aptly in when gruff 
 Grows his singing. (There, enough !) 
 
 We have a suggestion of the position of the 
 speaker, a woman upon the arm of the chair of her 
 lover or husband. How pointed and simple is the 
 first statement: "Scold me!" an apology for not 
 remembering or for not having given more atten- 
 tion. The humorous or pretended effort to remem- 
 ber whether it was prose or rhyme, Greek or Latin, 
 is given by slow, gradual inflections followed by a 
 marked, abrupt inflection upon the word "Greek," 
 as if she were absolutely sure of that point and 
 her memory of it definite. Again, note toward the 
 last, how the impression of his pretending not to 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 167 
 
 understand causes her to give a humorous and 
 abrupt emphasis to the point of her story. 
 
 The flexibihty and great variety in the modu- 
 lations of the voice requisite in the interpretation 
 of a monologue will be made clear by comparing 
 such a monologue with some short poem which 
 suggests a speech. Byron's *'To Tom Moore," 
 though there is one speaker, is not a monologue. 
 
 "My boat is on the shore, 
 
 And my bark is on the sea; 
 But before I go, Tom Moore, 
 Here's a double health to thee." 
 
 It is a kind of after-dinner speech, or lyric full of 
 feeling, an imaginative proposal by Byron of a 
 health to Tom Moore. But Moore is not expected 
 to say anything. Byron is dominated entirely by 
 his own mood. It is therefore quite lyric and 
 not at all dramatic. Note how intense but regular 
 are the rhythmic pulsations, the pause and the 
 touch. While there are changes of pitch and in- 
 flection, variety of movement and tone-color, yet 
 all of these are used in a very simple and ordi- 
 nary sense. There is none of that extreme use 
 of inflection, pause or tone- color found in Brown- 
 ing's "Memorabilia." 
 
 The difference between the modulations of the 
 voice in a monologue and in a play should be noted. 
 Take, for example, the words of the Archbishop in 
 "Henry V" regarding the character of the King. 
 They are addressed to friends in conversation and 
 are almost a speech. They have the force of a 
 judicial decision and are given with a great deal of 
 emphasis as well as v/ith logical continuity of ideas. 
 But this emphasis is regular and simple. It can be 
 
1 68 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 noted in any animated or emphatic conversation, 
 and the argument of the speech may be studied to 
 advantage by speakers on account of the few and 
 sahent or emphatic ideas. 
 
 In rendering some monologues, however, which 
 embody the same ideas, such as the "Memora- 
 bilia " (see p. 160), which has been made the central 
 illustration of this chapter, greater range, greater 
 abruptness in transitions, more and greater com- 
 plexity of the modulations of the voice as well as 
 sudden and strong impressions are required of the 
 reader. He should read both passages in contrast, 
 and note the difference in delivery. 
 
 One distinct peculiarity of the monologue is the 
 fact that it can give a past event from a dramatic 
 point of view. Note, for example, that in Jean 
 Ingelow's familiar poem, "The High Tide on the 
 Coast of Lincolnshire," the first stanza gives us the 
 spirit or movement of the whole poem. The first 
 line, 
 
 "The old mayor climbed the belfry tower," 
 
 emphasizes the excitement. 
 
 A definite situation is set before us, and we can 
 see, too, why the events are given as belonging to 
 the past. A vivid impression of the high tide along 
 the whole coast of Lincolnshire is afforded by its 
 relation to one humble cottage and family. An 
 old grandmother tells the story long after the 
 events have blended in her mind into one lasting 
 tragic impression. This brings the whole poem 
 into unity, makes a distinct, concrete picture and 
 a most impressive poetic, not to say dramatic, 
 interpretation of the event. 
 
 The author by presenting this old mother talk- 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 169 
 
 ing about her beloved daughter-in-law, Ehzabeth, 
 with "her two bairns," and the excited race of the 
 son to reach home before she went for the cows, 
 appeals to sympathy and feeling, awakens imagina- 
 tion, and presents not only a vivid and specific 
 picture, but such distinct types of character as to 
 make the event real. The poem is a fine example 
 of the union of lyric and dramatic imagination. 
 
 The speaker becomes more and more excited and 
 animated as she gives her memories of the suc- 
 cessive events, but in the midst of each event re- 
 lapses into grief. Again and again at the close of 
 stanzas, a single clause or line indicates her emo- 
 tion, rather than her memory of the exciting events. 
 The event is portrayed dramatically, but these last 
 lines are decidedly lyric. After the excited calling 
 of "Ehzabeth! Elizabeth!" by her son the very 
 name seems to awaken tenderness in her heart, and 
 she utters this deep lyric conviction : — 
 
 "A sweeter woman n'er drew breath 
 Than my Sonne's wife, Elizabeth." 
 
 The son, when he reaches home after his excited 
 chase to save his wife, looks across the grassy lea, — 
 
 *' To right, to left," 
 
 and cries 
 
 "Ho, Enderby!" 
 
 For at that moment he hears the bells ring "En- 
 derby !" which seem to be the knell of his hopes. 
 The next line, 
 
 "They rang 'The Brides of Enderby,'" 
 
 expresses the emotion of the grandmother as she 
 recalls the effect of the bells upon her son, and 
 possibly her own awakening to the meaning of the 
 
170 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 tune which has taken such deep hold of her imagi- 
 nation, and becomes naturally the central point of 
 the calamity in her memory. 
 
 The poem brings into direct contrast the excited 
 reahzation of each event and her feehng over the 
 disaster as a whole. The first is dramatic; the 
 second, lyric. The mother realizes dramatically 
 her son's exclamations and feelings, but the hne 
 
 "They rang 'The Brides of Enderby '" 
 
 is purely lyric and expressive of her own feehng in 
 remembrance of the danger. 
 
 The climax of the dramatic movement of the 
 story comes in the intense realization of the per- 
 sonal danger to herself and her son when they saw 
 the mighty tidal wave rolling up the river Lindis, 
 which 
 
 *' Sobbed in the grasses at our feet: 
 The feet had hardly time to flee 
 Before it brake against the knee." 
 
 Then the poet does not mention the son's efforts in 
 her behalf, the flight to the roof of their dwelling in 
 the midst of the waves, and makes a sudden transi- 
 tion again from the dramatic situation to the lyric 
 spirit as she moans with no thought of herself: 
 
 "And all the world was in the sea." 
 
 Another sudden transition in the poem is in- 
 dicated by a mere dash after "And I — " Starting 
 to relate her own experience w^th a loving mother's 
 instinct she turns instead to the grief of her son, — 
 
 "... my Sonne was at my side, 
 And yet he moaned beneath his breath." 
 
 This is followed by another passionate dramatic 
 climax, — 
 
Actions of Mind and Voice 171 
 
 "And didst thou visit him no more? 
 
 Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare, 
 The waters laid thee at his doore, 
 
 Ere yet the early dawn was clear. 
 Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, 
 The lifted sun shone on thy face, 
 Dow^n drifted to thy dwelling-place." 
 
 Here feeling is deepest in the speaker, and in 
 the hstener, and, of course, in the reader. The rest 
 of the poem is a sweet and mournful lyric: 
 
 *T shall never hear her more 
 Where the reeds and rushes quiver." 
 
 The poem closes with a crooning over Elizabeth's 
 song as the aged woman heard it for the last time. 
 
 Many public readers centre their whole interest 
 in the imitation or mere representation of this song, 
 and all the fervor of the piece is made accidental to 
 this. But such a method centres all attention in 
 mere vocal skill, to the loss, if not to the perversion 
 of its spirit. This song must not be given literally, 
 but in the character of the aged speaker. It lives 
 in the old mother's mind as a heart-breaking 
 memory, and any artificial or literal rendering of 
 it destroys the illusion or the true impression of the 
 poem. It should be given in a very subdued tone 
 with the least possible suggestion, if any at all, of 
 the music of the song. 
 
 The first stanza is apt also to be given out of 
 character. It is a burst of passionate remembrance 
 and must be given carefully as the overture em- 
 bodying the spirit of the whole. When the grand- 
 mother is asked by the interlocutor regarding the 
 story, she breaks into sudden excitement, and 
 then gradually passes into the quieter mood of 
 reminiscence. After that, the poem is rhythmic 
 
172 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 alternation between her memory of the exciting 
 events, and her own experiences ; in short, a co- 
 ordination of the lyric and the dramatic spirit. 
 
 The study of this poem affords a fine illustration 
 of movement, — similar to that of a great sym- 
 phony. The long pauses, sudden transitions in 
 pitch and color, and especially the pulsations of 
 feeling, when given in harmony illustrate the 
 marvellous power of the human voice. 
 
 XI. ACTIONS OF MIND AND BODY 
 
 As the monologue is a form of dramatic expression, 
 it necessarily implies action, — the most dramatic 
 of all languages. Dramatic expression, in its very 
 nature, implies life, and life is shown by movement. 
 For this reason action is in some sense the primary 
 or most necessary language required for dramatic 
 interpretation. 
 
 Action is a language that belongs to the whole 
 body. As light moves quickest in the outer world, 
 so action, — the language that appeals to the eye — 
 is the first appeal to consciousness. Life expands, 
 — the gleaming eye, the elevated and gravitating 
 body, the lifted hand, — all these show character 
 and a living or present realization of ideas, and are 
 most important in the monologue. 
 
 On account of the abrupt opening of most mono- 
 logues, the first clause requires salient and decided 
 action. The speaker must locate his hearer, and 
 must often indicate, by some decided movement, 
 the effect produced upon him by some previous 
 speech which has to be imagined. As the words 
 
Actions of Mind and Body 173 
 
 of the listener are not given but must be suggested, 
 it is necessary that the action be decided. 
 
 Though action or pantomime always precedes 
 speech, this precedence is especially pronounced 
 in monologues. Notice, for example, in Bret 
 Harte's "In a Tunnel,'' the look of surprise and 
 astonishment followed by the words given with 
 long rising inflections : " Did n't know Flynn .^ " 
 
 "Didn't know Flynn — Flynn of Virginia — long as he's been 
 *yar ? Look 'ee here, stranger, whar hev you been ? 
 
 "Here in this tunnel, — he was my pardner, that same Tom Flynn 
 — working together, in wind and weather, day out and in. 
 
 "Didn't know Flynn! Well, that i5 queer. Why, it 's a sin to think 
 of Tom Flynn — Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear, — stranger, 
 look 'yar! 
 
 "Thar in the drift back to the wall he held the timbers ready to 
 fall ; then in the darkness I heard him call — ' Run for your life, 
 Jake ! Run for your wife's sake ! Don't wait for me.' And that 
 was all, heard in the din, heard of Tom Flynn, — Flynn of Virginia. 
 
 "That 's all about Flynn of Virginia — that lets me out here in the 
 damp — out of the sun — that ar' dern'd lamp makes my eyes run. 
 
 "Well, there — I'm done! But, sir, when you'll hear the next 
 fool asking of Flynn — Flynn of Virginia — just you chip in, say you 
 knew Flynn ; say that you 've been 'yar." 
 
 The look of wonder is sustained until there is a 
 change to an intense, pointed inquiry : " Whar hev 
 you been.?" The intense surprise reveals the 
 rough character of the speaker, a miner in a mining 
 camp, and his admiration for Flynn, who has saved 
 his life. Then note the sudden transition as he 
 begins his story. His character must be main- 
 tained, and expressed by action through all the 
 many transitions ; but in the first clause especially 
 there must be a pause with a long continued atti- 
 tude of astonishment. 
 
 Action is required to present this vivid scene 
 which is suggested by only a few words, the admira- 
 
174 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 tion of the speaker for Flynn, who in the depths of 
 the mine, with but a moment to decide, gives his 
 hfe for another. The hero calls out "Run for your 
 wife's sake," the heart of the speaker warms with 
 admiration and the tears come; then the rough 
 Westerner is seen brushing away his tears and at- 
 tributing the water in his eyes to the "dern'd 
 lamp." Truth in depicting human nature, depth 
 of feeling, action, character, in short, the whole 
 meaning, is dependent upon the decided actions of 
 the body and the inflections of the voice directly 
 associated with these. 
 
 In "The Itahan in England " (p. 152), the word 
 "second" not only needs emphasis by the voice, as 
 has been shown, to indicate that the speaker has 
 already given an account of another experience, 
 but he may possibly throw up his hands to indicate 
 something unusual, something beyond words in 
 the experience he is about to relate. 
 
 It is especially necessary in the monologue that 
 action should show the discovery, arrival, or initia- 
 tion of ideas. A change in the direction of atten- 
 tion, a new subject or current of ideas, cannot be 
 indicated wholly by vocal expression. The mental 
 conjectures of Mrs. Caudle, for example, are very 
 pronounced, and cannot be fully expressed by the 
 voice without action. 
 
 Notice how definitely action, in union with vocal 
 expression, shows whether Mrs. Caudle's new im- 
 pressions are due to the natural association of ideas 
 in her mind, or to the words or conduct of Caudle. 
 The last mentioned give rise to her explosiveness, 
 withering sarcasm, and anger. Such discrimina- 
 tions produce the illusion of the scene. 
 
 In "Up at a Villa — Down in the City " (p. 65), 
 
Actions of Mind and Body 175 
 
 notice how necessary it is for the interpreter to 
 show the direction of his attention, whether he is 
 speaking regarding his villa or the city. Note the 
 disgust and attitude of gloom in his face and bear- 
 ing as he gazes towards his villa. 
 
 " Over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees," 
 
 suggests a picture calling for admiration from us, 
 but not from him. To him the tulip is a great 
 "bubble of blood." All this receives a definite 
 tone-color, and it must be borne in mind that with- 
 out action of the body, the quality of the voice will 
 not change. The emotion diffuses itself through 
 the whole organism of the impersonator of the 
 "person of quality," and even hands, feet and face 
 are given a certain attitude by this emotion. Con- 
 tempt for the villa will depress his whole body and 
 thus color his tone. On the contrary, when the 
 speaker turns to the city, his face hghts up. The 
 "fountain — to splash," the "houses in four straight 
 lines," the "fanciful signs which are painted prop- 
 erly," — all these are apparently contemplated by 
 him with such an expansion and elevation of his 
 body as almost to cause laughter. 
 
 This contrast, which is sustained through the 
 whole monologue, can be interpreted or presented 
 only by the actions of the body and their effect on 
 the tone. 
 
 Expression of face and body are necessary to sug- 
 gest the delicate changes in thinking and feehng. 
 Notice in "A Tale" (p. 163) that the struggle of 
 the woman to remember is shown by action. 
 
 The two lines 
 
 *'Said you found it somewhere, . . . 
 Was it prose or was it rhyme ? " 
 
176 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 are not so much addressed to the Hstener as to her- 
 self, as she tries to remember, and she would show 
 this by action. Every subtle change in thought and 
 feeling is indicated by a decided expression in the 
 face. In her efforts to remember, she would possi- 
 bly turn away from him at first with a bewildered 
 look, then she might turn toward him again, as she 
 asked him the question; but if she asked this of 
 herself, her head would remain turned away. 
 When she decides with a bow of the head that it is 
 Greek, note how her face would light up and pos- 
 sibly intimate confidence that she was right. At 
 the close of the poem, notice the tender mischief of 
 her glance when she refers to "somebody I know" 
 v/ho is "deserving of a prize." The monologue is 
 full of the subtlest variations of point of view and 
 thought, and these variations call for a constant 
 play of feature. 
 
 The struggle for an idea must be frankly dis- 
 closed. An interruption, a thought broken on 
 account of a sudden leap of the mind, must be 
 interpreted faithfully by the eyes, the face, the 
 walk, or the body, in union with vocal expression. 
 
 In the soliloquy of the " Spanish Cloister " (p. 58), 
 for example, notice how the whole face, head, and 
 body of the speaker recoil at the very start on 
 discovering Brother Lawrence in the garden. No- 
 tice, too, the fiendish delight as he sees the acci- 
 dent, "There his lily snaps!" How sarcastic is 
 his reference to the actions of Brother Lawrence, 
 who, unconscious that any one is looking at him, 
 seems to stop and shake his head in a way that leads 
 the speaker to infer that a "myrtle-bush wants 
 trimming:" but instantly, with a sneer he adds, 
 "Oh, that rose has prior claims." Such sarcastic 
 
Actions of Mind and Body 177 
 
 variations occur all through the monologue. ** How 
 go on your flowers ?" is given with gleeful expect- 
 ancy, and he notes with cruel joy the disappoint- 
 ment of Brother Lawrence when looking to find 
 one "double," and chuckles to himself 
 
 *' Strange ! — And I, too, at such trouble, 
 Keep them close-nipped on the sly ! " 
 
 Note, too, the difference in facial action when the 
 speaker is observing Brother Lawrence and when 
 conjuring up schemes to send this good man " Off 
 to hell, a Manichee." 
 
 Another point to be noted in the study of the 
 monologue is the giving of quotations. These, of 
 course, are an echo of what the hearer has said, 
 and must be rendered with care. 
 
 Look again at Browning's "A Tale," and note 
 "cicada," which is quoted. This is followed by an 
 interrogation, and refers to the listener's humor- 
 ously sarcastic question regarding the scientific 
 aspects of her subject. She echoes it, of course, 
 with her own feeling of surprise, and the exclama- 
 tion "Pooh !" silences him so that she may go on 
 with her story. Notice how necessary action is 
 here to enable the reader to interpret the meaning 
 of this to the audience. 
 
 Quotations especially call for action as they re- 
 flect the opposition of the character of the listener 
 to that of the speaker ; they are always given with 
 decided changes. The words only, however, and at 
 times the ideas only, are quoted; the feeling, the 
 impression, are all the speaker's own. Quotations 
 are merely the conversational echo of the words of 
 another such as are frequently heard in every- day 
 life, and demand both action and vocal expression 
 
 for their true interpretation. 
 
 12 
 
178 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 The subject of quotations requires special at- 
 tention in the monologue. They must be given, not 
 only with decided pauses, inflections, changes of 
 movement and variations in accentuation, and in 
 all the modulations of the voice, but with suggestive 
 action, changes in the direction of the eye, head, 
 and body. In short, there must be a complete 
 change in all the expression from what preceded, 
 because the impression produced by an idea in the 
 speaker's own mind is not so forcible as the effect of 
 a word from a listener ; at any rate, the impression 
 is different. In teUing our story to him, his attitude 
 of mind, in demurring or assenting, will cause a 
 sudden change or recoil on our part. The differ- 
 ence in the impressions made upon the speaker by 
 his own ideas and by what his listener says must 
 be indicated, and this can only be indicated by 
 uniting the language of action and vocal expression 
 with words. A change of idea or some remem- 
 brance awakened in our own mind comes naturally, 
 but a sudden remark or interruption produces a 
 more decided and definite impression upon us. 
 The surprised look and abrupt turn of the head are 
 necessary to show the sense of imaginative reality. 
 
 Observe the definite and extreme, even sudden, 
 transitions which are made in conversation. These 
 abrupt leaps of the mind from one subject to an- 
 other are indicated by a simple turn, it may be, of 
 the head, with sudden changes in the face, and, of 
 course, with changes of pitch and movement. The 
 monologue gives the best interpretation of these 
 actions of the mind to be found in Hterature. 
 
 As an example, note Riley's "Knee-deep in 
 June." The more decided and sudden the transi- 
 tions in this poem, the better. The abrupt arrival 
 
Actions of Mind and Body 179 
 
 of an idea, the subtle start it gives to face or head 
 or body, should be naturally suggested. 
 
 Action is especially needed in all abrupt transi- 
 tions in thought and feeling. In many of the more 
 humorous monologues, there is often a sudden 
 pathetic touch towards the last, requiring slower 
 movement in the action of the body. Occasionally, 
 very sudden and extreme contrasts occur. The 
 reader must make long pauses in these cases, and 
 accentuate strongly the action, of which vocal ex- 
 pression is more or less a result. 
 
 As further illustrative of a sudden transition, note 
 how in Riley's monologue, "When de Folks is 
 Gone," the scared negro grows more and more ex- 
 cited until a climax of terror is reached in the 
 penultimate line : 
 
 " Wha' dat shinin' fru de front do' crack ? '* 
 
 Between this line and the last the cause of the 
 light outside is discovered, and a complete recovery 
 from terror to joy must be indicated. With the 
 greatest relief he must utter the last line : 
 
 "God bress de Lo'd, hit's de folks got back." 
 
 The study of action in the rendering of a mono- 
 logue brings us to one of the most important points 
 in all dramatic expression. No form of dramatic 
 art is given so directly to an audience as is a story 
 or a speech. The interpreter of a monologue must 
 feel his audience, but not speak to it. He must 
 address all his remarks to his imaginary listener. 
 
 Where shall he locate this listener, and why in 
 that particular place ? 
 
 The late Joseph Jefferson called attention to the 
 difference between oratory and acting. "The two 
 
i8o Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 arts," he said, "go hand in hand, so far as mag- 
 netism and inteUigence are concerned, but there 
 comes a point where they differ widely. The actor 
 is, or should be, impressionable and sensitive; the 
 orator, on the other hand, must have the power 
 of impressing." Accordingly, the orator speaks 
 directly to his audience; the actor does not. 
 
 This distinction is important. It may possibly 
 go too far, because the orator must give his atten- 
 tion to his truth, must receive impressions from his 
 ideas, and reveal his impressions to his audience. 
 He too must be impressionable and sensitive, but 
 his attentive and responsive attitude is always to 
 the picture created by his own mind. He is im- 
 personal and gives direct attention to his auditors. 
 He receives vivid impressions from truth, and then 
 endeavors to give these to others. 
 
 In a play, on the contrary, the actor receives an 
 impression from his interlocutor. He must give 
 great attention to what his interlocutor is saying, 
 and must reveal his impressions to his audience by 
 faithfully portraying the effect of the other's thought 
 and feeling upon himself. 
 
 In the monologue the same is true. The inter- 
 locutor, however, is imagined. More imagination 
 is called for, and greater impressionability and sen- 
 sitiveness, because there is no interlocutor there for 
 the audience to see. The hearer must judge en- 
 tirely from the impressions made upon the speaker. 
 
 Action, therefore, is most important. The imper- 
 sonator must reveal decidedly and definitely every 
 impression made upon him, but must speak to, 
 and act toward, his imaginary auditor, and only 
 indirectly to his audience. 
 
 The interpretation of the monologue thus brings 
 
Actions of Mind and Body i8i 
 
 us to a unique form of what may be called platform 
 action, demanding specific attention. If the inter- 
 preter is not supposed to speak directly to his audi- 
 ence but to address an imaginary hearer, where 
 must this imaginary hearer be located, and why 
 there ? Usually somewhat to one side. Only in 
 this way can the speaker suggest his differing rela- 
 tions to listener and audience. 
 
 The suggestion of these relations is an aspect of 
 expression frequently overlooked. In society or on 
 the street it is not polite to talk to any one over the 
 shoulder, and turning the back upon a man repels 
 him most effectively. The turning away of the 
 body may show contempt or inattention. It may, 
 however, also show subjectivity and indicate the 
 fact that the man is turning his attention within to 
 ponder upon the subject another has mentioned, 
 or is reflecting on what he is going to say. 
 
 Attention is the basis of all expression, and the 
 first cause of all action, since we turn our attention 
 toward a person and listen to what he has to say 
 before we speak to him. Accordingly, pivotal ac- 
 tion of the body is important in life, and is of great 
 importance in all forms of dramatic art, whether 
 on the stage or in the rendering of a monologue. 
 
 A speaker, especially a dramatic speaker, pivots 
 from his audience when he becomes subjective, and 
 suggests an imaginary listener, or represents a con- 
 versation between two or more in a story. He does 
 not do this consciously and deliberately, but from 
 instinct. Primarily, it is obedience to the dramatic 
 instinct that causes this pivotal action. Any one 
 who will observe the natural actions of men on the 
 street, in business, in society, or in impassioned 
 oratory, can recognize the meaning and importance 
 
1 82 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 of the pivotal actions of the body. It is one of the 
 fundamental manifestations of dramatic instinct. 
 
 Pivoting toward any one expresses attention and 
 politeness. Attention is the secret of politeness. 
 To listen to another is a primary characteristic of 
 good breeding. Pivoting toward one is also indica- 
 tive of emphasis. In conversation, even in walking 
 on the street, when one has something emphatic to 
 say he turns directly to his interlocutor, and often 
 adds gesture ; on the other hand, turning away, or 
 failing to pivot toward some one, indicates an esti- 
 mate that something is trivial or unimportant. 
 
 In the delivery of a monologue there is often an 
 object referred to which the interlocutor naturally 
 places on one side, while he locates his listener on 
 the other. Thus, in the unemphatic parts he would 
 turn away and not be continually " nosing his in- 
 terlocutor" or talking directly to him. This would 
 cause him to give his ideas to the audience directly 
 or indirectly. Whenever he talks emphatically, he 
 would turn toward his interlocutor. When the 
 object referred to is more directly in the field of 
 attention, he would turn toward that. 
 
 Ruth McEnery Stuart, for example, is the author 
 of a monologue in which an old countryman talks 
 about his son winning a "diplomy." The speaker 
 in the monologue would naturally locate the di- 
 ploma on one side and the listener on the other. 
 
 It is easy to see that this pivotal action is of great 
 importance on the stage. It is the very basis of all 
 true stage representation. The amateur always 
 " noses " his interlocutor. The artist is able to show 
 all degrees of attention by the pivotal action of the 
 body, and thus reveal to an audience the very rank 
 of the person addressed, whether that consists in 
 
Actions of Mind and Body 183 
 
 dignity of character, which makes him a special 
 object of interest, or in a royal or conventionally 
 superior station. 
 
 That the pivotal action of the body in a mono- 
 logue is especially important can be seen at once. 
 The object of attention is an invisible listener, and 
 the turning of the body to the side not only shows 
 the speaker's own attention, but it helps the auditor 
 to locate the person addressed. 
 
 Without this pivotal action, the reader is apt 
 to declaim a monologue, and confuse it with a 
 speech. The monologue is never a direct en- 
 deavor to impress an audience. Only occasionally 
 can the audience be made to stand for the person 
 addressed. 
 
 Some one will ask. Why at the side ? Because if 
 we hold out two objects for an audience to observe, 
 we shall put them side by side. The placing of one 
 before the other will cause confusion or prevent the 
 possibility of discrimination. In art, the law of 
 rhythm, or of composition, demands that objects 
 be distributed side by side in order to win different 
 degrees of attention. A picture of any kind de- 
 mands such an arrangement of objects as will hold 
 the attention concentrated. An object in the back- 
 ground may aid the sustaining of attention upon 
 something in the foreground. Objects are placed 
 in opposition to cause the mind to alternate from 
 one to the other, and thus to sustain attention until 
 it penetrates the meaning of the smallest scene. 
 This is the soul, not only of pictorial, but of dra- 
 matic art. 
 
 Placing an imaginary character at the side does 
 not make words necessarily dramatic. This may 
 be only an external aspect of the poem. The most 
 
184 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 passionate lyrics may be given with this change of 
 attitude because of their great subjectivity. They 
 are often as subjective as a sohloquy. Again, this 
 turning of the body to the side does not mean that 
 the person to whom the speaker seems to be talk- 
 ing is definitely represented. The listener may be 
 located at the side for a moment, it may be un- 
 consciously, and lost sight of almost entirely. The 
 feeling must often absorb the speaker and pass into 
 the most subjective lyric intensity. Dramatic art 
 must move; there must be continual progressive 
 transitions. Hence, the picture must continually 
 change, and pivotal flexibility is especially neces- 
 sary. Such turning of the body can be seen in 
 every-day conversation. The degree of attention 
 to a listener varies in all intercourse. While talk- 
 ing to another, the speaker may become dominated 
 by a subjective idea or mood and turn away ; yet 
 the listener's presence is always felt. 
 
 Transition to the side as expressive of attention 
 takes place in the platform reading of a drama with 
 several characters. In this case, the interpreter 
 distributes the characters in various directions ; but 
 this must be done according to their importance, 
 and as each one speaks, the person addressed must 
 be indicated as in the monologue. 
 
 Hence, it is not an artificial arrangement to place 
 the character you address somewhat to the side, 
 but in accordance with the laws of the mind and 
 with every-day conversation. By this placing of 
 an imaginary listener, all degrees of attention and 
 inattention toward another can be indicated. You 
 can show a subjective action of the mind by piv- 
 oting naturally away from the person to whom 
 you speak, but at the moment an idea comes to you 
 
Actions of Mind and Body 185 
 
 clearly and definitely, it dominates you, and you 
 turn towards him. 
 
 In pivoting the body, or showing attention, the 
 eye always leads. An impolite man has little 
 control of his eyes or of his pivotal action. An 
 embarrassed or nervous man shows his agitation 
 especially in his eye. The polite man gives the at- 
 tention of his eye, the head follows that, and then 
 the whole body turns attentively. Accordingly, the 
 turn of the eye, the head, and the whole body must 
 be brought into sympathetic unity. 
 
 The interpreter of the monologue must have a 
 free use of his entire bod}, must be able to step and 
 move with ease in any direction. But a single step 
 is all that is necessary, except in rare cases. The 
 simpler the movements and attitudes of the in- 
 terpreter the better, and the more impressive and 
 suggestive will he be to the imagination of his audi- 
 ence. Chaotic movements backward and forward 
 will confuse the hearer's attention and fail to in- 
 dicate the direction of his own, which is of vital 
 moment. Often the slightest turn of the head is 
 all that is necessary. 
 
 The interpretation of a monologue must be more 
 suggestive in its action than that of a play. On 
 the stage there may be many actors, and the pivotal 
 movements of many characters toward each other 
 must often bring a large number into unity, so that 
 a group can express the situation by co-operative 
 action. The attention of a hundred can be focussed 
 on one picture or on one idea. But the interpreter 
 of the monologue has only his own eye, head, and 
 body to lead the attention of his auditors and to 
 suggest the most profound impressions. 
 
 In the nature of the case, accordingly, the situa- 
 
1 86 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 tion of the monologue must be more simple and 
 definite ; and for the same reason, the actions must 
 be more pronounced and sustained. The interpre- 
 tation of the monologue thus calls for the ablest 
 dramatic artist. 
 
 There are many important phases of this peculiar 
 pivotal action. The speed of the movement, for 
 example, shows the degree of excitement. The eye 
 only, or the eye and the head, or both with the body, 
 may turn. Each of these cases indicates a differ- 
 ence in the degree of attention or in the relations 
 of the speaker to the listener. 
 
 Again, this pivotal action has a direct relation to 
 the advancing of the body forward toward a listener, 
 the gravitation of passion which shows sympathy 
 and feeling as well as attention. 
 
 The student may think such directions mechan- 
 ical, especially when it is said that the body in turn- 
 ing must sustain its centrality, and that there must 
 be no confusion or useless steps ; but in this case 
 the foot acts as a kind of eye, by a peculiar instinct 
 which always indicates the proper direction, if the 
 speaker is really thinking dramatically. 
 
 The turning action of the body has been dis- 
 cussed more at length than the other elements of 
 action on account of its importance in the render- 
 ing of a monologue, and also because it is usually 
 misunderstood or entirely overlooked. There are 
 many other expressive actions associated with this 
 turning of the body which need discussion. They, 
 however, belong to the subject of pantomimic ex- 
 pression, rather than to a general discussion of the 
 nature of the monologue and the chief peculiarities 
 of its interpretation. 
 
 The same may be said regarding the innumerable 
 
Actions of Mind and Body 187 
 
 and extremely subtle and complex actions of other 
 parts of the body. The actions concerned in the 
 rendering of a monologue are those associated with 
 the every-day intercourse of men in conversation, 
 and are often so dehcate and unpronounced that 
 an auditor will hardly notice them. He will simply 
 feel the general impression of truthfulness. The 
 interpreter of the monologue, for this very reason, 
 needs to give the most careful attention to action 
 as a language. Neglect of action is the most sur- 
 prising fault of modern delivery. 
 
 Anything like an adequate discussion of action as 
 a language is impossible in this place. There are, 
 however, certain dangers which call for special 
 though brief attention. 
 
 In the first place, action must never be declama- 
 tory or oratorio. Swinging actions of the arms and 
 extravagant movements of the body — possibly par- 
 donable in oratory, on account of the great desire 
 to impress truth upon men, to drive home a point 
 energetically — are out of place in a monologue. 
 The manner must be forcible, but simple and 
 natural. Activity must manifest thought and pas- 
 sion ; it should not be merely descriptive, but must 
 arise from the relations of the interlocutor. The 
 monologue requires great accentuation of the sub- 
 jective element in pantomime. 
 
 This brings us to a second danger. The dra- 
 matic artist is tempted merely to represent or 
 imitate. He desires to locate not only his hstener, 
 but every object, and so is tempted to objective 
 descriptions. 
 
 Action is of two kinds, — representative and mani- 
 festative. In representative action one illustrates, 
 describes, indicates objects, places, and directions. 
 
1 88 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 One shows the objective situations and relations. 
 Manifestative pantomime, on the contrary, reveals 
 the feelings and experiences of the human mind, 
 or the subjective situations and relations. Repre- 
 sentative pantomime is apt to degenerate into mere 
 imitative movements. Manifestative pantomime 
 centres in the eye or the face, but belongs to the 
 whole body. Even when we make representative 
 movements with the hand and arm, the attitude of 
 the hand shows the conditions prompting the 
 gesture, and face and body show the real experi- 
 ences and feelings. 
 
 In the giving of humorous monologues, repre- 
 sentative action is often appropriate and necessary. 
 The hearer must be located, objects must often be 
 distributed and rightly related to assist the audience 
 in conceiving the situation. 
 
 The need of representative action is seen in Day's 
 '*01d Boggs' Slarnt." 
 
 OLD BOGGS' SLARNT 
 
 Old Bill Boggs is always sayin' that he 'd like to, but he carat ; 
 He hain't never had no chances, he hain't never got no slarnt. 
 Says it's all dum foolish tryin', 'less ye git the proper start, 
 Says he 's never seed no op'nin' so he 's never had no heart. 
 But he 's chawed enough tobacker for to fill a hogset up, 
 And has spent his time a-trainin' some all-fired kind of pup; 
 While his wife has took in washin' and his children hain't been larnt 
 'Cause old Boggs is alius whinin' that he 's never got no slarnt. 
 
 Them air young uns round the gros'ry had n't oughter done the 
 
 thing ! 
 Now it 's done, though, and it 's over, 't was a cracker-jack, by jing. 
 Boggs, ye see, has been a-settin' twenty years on one old plank, 
 One end h'isted on a saw-hoss, t' other on the cistern tank. 
 T' other night he was a-chawin' and he says, "I vum-spt-ooo — 
 Here I am a-owin' money — not a gol durn thing to do ! 
 
Actions of Mind and Body 189 
 
 'Tain't no use er buckin' chances, ner er fightin' back at Luck, 
 
 — Less ye have some way er startin', feller 's sartin to be stuck. 
 Needs a slarnt to get yer going" — then them young uns give a 
 
 carnt, 
 
 — Plank went up an' down old Boggs went — yas, he got it, got his 
 
 slarnt. 
 
 Course, the young uns should n't done it — sent mine off along to 
 bed — 
 
 Helped to pry Boggs out the cistern — he war n't more 'n three- 
 quarters dead. 
 
 Did n't no one 'prove the act'ons, but when all them kids was gone, 
 
 Thunder mighty ! How we hollered ! Gab'rel could n't heered his 
 horn. 
 
 When the speaker in the monologue describes the 
 plank which has 
 
 *'One end h'isted on a saw-hoss, t' other on the cistern tank," 
 
 he would naturally in conversation describe and 
 indicate the tank and the saw-horse and the direc- 
 tion of the slope of the plank. Then, when 
 
 "... them young uns give a carnt," 
 
 and the plank went up, it might be indicated that 
 one end went up, by one hand, and by the other 
 that old Boggs went down. This can be done 
 easily and naturally and in character. The genius 
 of the "gros'ry," who is speaking, would indicate 
 these very simply with hand and eye. This action 
 will not only express the humor, but help the audi- 
 ence to conceive the situation. 
 
 In a serious monologue, such as "A Gramma- 
 rian's Funeral" (p. 72), the speaker looks down 
 toward the town, and talks about the condition of 
 those there who did not appreciate his master. The 
 reader must indicate where the speaker locates his 
 friends who are carrying the body, and suggest also, 
 by looking upward to the hill- top, where they are 
 
190 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 to bury him. This representative action, when only 
 suggestive, in no way interferes with, but rather 
 assists, the manifestation of feeling. 
 
 It must not be forgotten that there is great danger 
 in exaggerating the objective or representative 
 action of a monologue. The exaggeration of acci- 
 dents is the chief means of degrading noble htera- 
 ture in delivery. 
 
 For example, one of the finest monologues, "The 
 Vagabonds," by J. T. Trowbridge, has been made 
 by public readers a mere means of imitating the 
 oddities of a drunkard. The true centring of atten- 
 tion should be on the mental characteristics of such 
 a man. A degraded method of delivering this 
 centres everything on the mere accidents and oddi- 
 ties of manner. Thus a most pathetic and tragic 
 situation may be portrayed in a way not to awaken 
 sympathy, but laughter. 
 
 THE VAGABONDS 
 
 We are two travellers, Roger and I, 
 
 Roger 's my dog. Come here, you scamp. 
 Jump for the gentleman — mind your eye ! 
 
 Over the table — look out for the lamp ! 
 The rogue is growing a little old: 
 
 Five years we 've tramped through wind and weather, 
 And slept out doors when nights were cold, 
 
 And ate, and drank, and starved together. 
 
 We 've learned what comfort is, I tell you : 
 
 A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, 
 A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, 
 
 The paw he holds up there has been frozen). 
 Plenty of catgut for my fiddle 
 
 (This out-door business is bad for strings), 
 Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle. 
 
 And Roger and I set up for kings. 
 
Actions of Mind and Body 191 
 
 No, thank you, sir, I never drink. 
 
 Roger and I are exceedingly moral. 
 Are n't we, Roger ? See him wink. 
 
 Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. 
 He 's thirsty too — see him nod his head. 
 
 What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk; 
 He understands every word that's said, 
 
 And he knows good milk from water and chalk. 
 
 The truth is, sir, now I reflect, 
 
 I 've been so sadly given to grog, 
 I wonder I 've not lost the respect 
 
 (Here 's to you, sir) even of my dog. 
 But he sticks by through thick and thin. 
 
 And this old coat with its empty pockets. 
 And rags that smell of tobacco and gin. 
 
 He '11 follow while he has eyes in his sockets. 
 
 There is n't another creature living 
 
 Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, 
 So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving. 
 
 To such a miserable, thankless master. 
 No, sir ! see him wag his tail and grin — 
 
 By George ! it makes my old eyes water — 
 That is, there 's something in this gin 
 
 That chokes a fellow, but no matter. 
 
 We '11 have some music if you are willing. 
 
 And Roger here (what a plague a cough is, sir) 
 Shall march a little. Start, you villain ! 
 
 Paws up ! eyes front ! salute your officer ! 
 'Bout face ! attention ! take your rifle ! 
 
 (Some dogs have arms you see.) Now hold 
 Your cap while the gentlemen give a trifle 
 
 To aid a poor old patriot soldier. 
 
 March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakes 
 
 When he stands up to hear his sentence; 
 Now tell how many drams it takes 
 
 To honor a jolly new acquaintance. 
 Five yelps, that 's five — he 's mighty knowing ; 
 
 The night 's before us, fill the glasses ; 
 Quick, sir ! I 'm ill ; my brain is going ; 
 
 Some brandy;' thank you: there, it passes. 
 
192 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Why not reform ? That's easily said. 
 
 But I 've gone through such wretched treatment, 
 Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, 
 
 And scarce remembering what meat meant, 
 That my poor stomach 's past reform, 
 
 And there are times when, mad with thinking, 
 I 'd sell out Heaven for something warm 
 
 To prop a horrible inward sinking. 
 
 Is there a way to forget to think .? 
 
 At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, 
 A dear girl's love; but I took to drink; 
 
 The same old story, you know how it ends. 
 If you could have seen these classic features — 
 
 You need n't laugh, sir, I was not then 
 Such a burning libel on God's creatures; 
 
 I was one of your handsome men. 
 
 If you had seen her, so fair, so young, 
 
 Whose head was happy on this breast; 
 If you could have heard the songs I sung 
 
 When the wine went round, you would n't have guess'd 
 That ever I, sir, should be straying 
 
 From door to door, with fiddle and dog, 
 Ragged and penniless, and playing 
 
 To you to-night for a glass of grog. 
 
 She 's married since, a parson's wife ; 
 
 'T was better for her that we should part ; 
 Better the soberest, prosiest life 
 
 Than a blasted home and a broken heart. 
 I have seen her ? Once ! I was weak and spent 
 
 On the dusty road; a carriage stopped, 
 But little she dreamed as on she went. 
 
 Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped. 
 
 You 've set me talking, sir, I 'm sorry ; 
 
 It makes me wild to think of the change. 
 What do you care for a beggar's story ? 
 
 Is it amusing ? you find it strange ? 
 I had a mother so proud of me, 
 
 'T was well she died before. Do you know. 
 If the happy spirits in Heaven can see 
 
 The ruin and wretchedness here below ? 
 
Actions of Mind and Body 193 
 
 Another glass, and strong to deaden 
 
 This pain; then Roger and I will start. 
 I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden. 
 
 Aching thing, in place of a heart ? 
 He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could. 
 
 No doubt remembering things that were: 
 A virtuous kennel with plenty of food. 
 
 And himself a sober, respectable cur. 
 
 I 'm better now ; that glass was warming. 
 
 You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! 
 We must be fiddling and performing 
 
 For supper and ^ed, or starve in the street. 
 Not a very gay life to lead you think ? 
 
 But soon we shall go where lodgings are free. 
 And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; 
 
 The sooner the better for Roger and me. 
 
 "The Vagabonds" deserves study on account 
 of its revelation of the subjectivity possible to 
 the monologue. Notice the speaker's talk to his 
 dog: "Come here, you scamp," — "Jump for the 
 gentleman," — "Over the table, look out for the 
 lamp." Then he begins the story of his life, ex- 
 hibiting his pathetic condition, and displaying his 
 realization of his downfall. After this he resolutely 
 turns to his violin and calls upon his dog to perform : 
 
 *'Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer! 
 'Bout face ! attention ! take your rifle ! " 
 
 Then suddenly the note of remorse is sounded ; his 
 sense of illness, his restoration with the brandy, are 
 true in every line to human character. 
 
 The interpretation of such a poem is difficult 
 because it verges so close upon the imitative that 
 readers are apt to lose the spirit and intention of 
 the author. It must be made entirely a study of 
 character. The underlying spirit, not the accidents, 
 must be accentuated by the action of the body. 
 
 13 
 
194 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 In general, even when representative actions are 
 most appropriate and helpful, the manifestative 
 actions of face and body must be accentuated and 
 at all times made to predominate over the repre- 
 sentative actions. The more serious any interpre- 
 tation is, the more necessary is it that manifestation 
 transcend representation. Every student should 
 observe how manifestative action of face and body 
 always supports descriptive gesture. 
 
 Again, in the monologue there must not be 
 too much motion. Motion is superficial, show- 
 ing merely extraneous relations, and may indicate 
 nervousness or lack of control. The attitude must 
 be sustained. Any motion should be held until it 
 spreads through the whole being. Motions reveal 
 superficial emotions ; attitudes, the deeper condi- 
 tions. Conditions must transcend both motions 
 and attitudes, and attitudes must always predomi- 
 nate over motions. 
 
 The monologue must not be spectacular, and 
 cannot be interpreted by external and mechanical 
 movements. The whole body must act, but in a 
 natural way. Expansions of the body, the kindhng 
 eye, the animated face, form the centre of all true 
 dramatic actions. 
 
 The attitude at the climax of any motion makes 
 the motion emphatic. The monologue is so subtle, 
 and requires such accentuation of deep impression, 
 that attitudes are especially necessary. An attitude 
 accentuates a condition or feehng by prolonging its 
 pantomimic suggestion. As the power to pause, or 
 to stay the attention until the mind realizes a situa- 
 tion and awakens the depths of passion, is important 
 in vocal expression, so the staying of a motion at 
 its climax, a sustaining of the attitude that reveals 
 
The Monologue and Metre 195 
 
 the deepest emotional condition, is the basis of 
 true dramatic action. 
 
 Of all languages, action is the least noticeable, 
 the most in the background, but, on the other hand, 
 of all languages it is the most continuous. From 
 the cradle to the grave, sleeping or waking, pan- 
 tomimic expression in never absent. Consciously 
 or unconsciously, every step we take, every posi- 
 tion we assume, reveals us, our character, emotions, 
 experiences. Hence, any dramatic interpretation 
 of human experiences or character, such as a 
 monologue, demands thorough and conscientious 
 study of this language, which reveals both the high- 
 est and the lowest conditions of the heart. 
 
 XII. THE MONOLOGUE AND METRE 
 
 One of the most important questions in regard to 
 form in poetry, especially the form and interpreta- 
 tion of the monologue, relates to metre. 
 
 To most persons metre is something purely ar- 
 bitrary and artificial. Books on the subject often 
 give merely an account of the different kinds of 
 feet with hardly a hint that metre has meaning. 
 But metre is not a mechanical structure which 
 exists merely for its own sake. When the metre is 
 true, it expresses the spirit of the poem, as the leaf 
 reveals the life and character of the tree. 
 
 The attitude of mind of many persons of culture 
 and taste toward metre is surprising. Rarely, for 
 example, is a hymn read with its true metric move- 
 ment. Is this one reason why hymns are no longer 
 read aloud ? Not only ministers and public speak- 
 ers, but even the best actors and pubhc readers. 
 
196 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 often blur the most beautiful Hnes. How rarely do 
 we find an Edwin Booth who can give the spirit of 
 Shakespeare's blank verse ! Few actors reahze 
 the pain they give to cultivated ears or to those 
 who have the imagination and feeling to appre- 
 ciate the expressiveness of the metric structure in 
 the highest poetry. 
 
 The development of a proper appreciation of 
 metre is of great importance. Though the student 
 should acquaint himself with the metric feet and 
 the information conveyed in all the rhetorics and 
 books on metre, still he has hardly learned the 
 alphabet of the subject. 
 
 To appreciate its metre, one must so enter into 
 the spirit of a poem that the metric movement is 
 felt as a part of its expression. The nature of the 
 feet chosen, the length of the lines, — everything 
 connected with the form of a fine poem, is directly 
 expressive. The sublimer the poem, the painting, 
 or any work of art, the more will the smallest de- 
 tail be consistent with the whole and a necessary 
 part of the expression. 
 
 Metre has been studied too much as a matter of 
 print. Few recognize the fact that metre is neces- 
 sarily a part of vocal rather than of verbal expres- 
 sion, and can only be suggested in print. 
 
 Metre can be revealed only by the human voice. 
 As a printed word is only a sign, so print can afford 
 a hint only of the nature of metre. Its study, ac- 
 cordingly, must be associated with the living voice 
 and the vocal interpretation of literature. 
 
 The mastery of metre requires first of all a de- 
 velopment of the sense of rhythm, a realization 
 especially of the subjective aspects of rhythm, a 
 consciousness of the rhythm of thinking and feeling 
 
The Monologue and Metre 197 
 
 and the power we have of controlling or accentuat- 
 ing this. There must be developed in addition a 
 sense of form and a reahzation of the nature of all 
 expression, and of the necessity that ideas and feel- 
 ings be revealed through natural and objective 
 means. 
 
 Another step not to be despised is the training of 
 the ear. At the basis of every specific problem of 
 education will be found the necessary training of a 
 sense. How can a painter be developed without 
 education of the eye as well as control of the hand. 
 So metre must be recognized by the ear before it 
 can be revealed by the voice. Last of all, the 
 imagination must recreate the poem and the 
 reader must realize the specific language of every 
 foot and feel its hidden meaning. 
 
 All these aims will be developed, more or less 
 together, and be in direct relation to all the ele- 
 ments of expression. 
 
 Metre is a diflficult subject in which to lay down 
 general principles, lest they become artificial rules. 
 Every poem that is really great shows something 
 new in the way of combining imperfect feet, and 
 the student must study the movement for himself. 
 
 Many will be tempted to ask, "What has metre 
 to do with the monologue .^" It is true that metre 
 belongs to all poetry, but the monologue has some 
 specific and peculiar uses of metre, and, more than 
 any other form of poetry except the poetic drama, 
 demands the living voice. Hence a few sugges- 
 tions are necessary at this point upon this much 
 neglected and misconceived subject. 
 
 To understand the relation of metre to the mono- 
 logue, it should be held in mind that metre is far 
 more flexible and free in dramatic than in lyric 
 
iqS Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 poetry. In lyric poetry it is usually more regular 
 and partakes of the nature of song; but in dra- 
 matic poetry it is more changeable and bears more 
 resemblance to the rhythm of speech. In the 
 lyric, metre expresses a mood, and mood as a per- 
 manent condition of feeling necessitates a more 
 regular rhythm; but in dramatic poetry, metre 
 expresses the pulse-beat of one character in con- 
 tact with another. It must respond to all the sudden 
 changes of thought and feeling. 
 
 The difference between the metre of Keats or 
 Shelley or Chaucer and that of Shakespeare or of 
 Browning is not wholly one of personality. It is 
 often due to a difference in the theme discussed 
 and in the spirit of their poetry. 
 
 So important is the understanding of metre to 
 the right appreciation of any exalted poetic mono- 
 logue, that in general, unless the interpreter 
 thoroughly masters the subject of metre, he is un- 
 prepared to render anything but so-called mono- 
 logues on the lowest plane of farce and vaudeville 
 art. 
 
 Very close to the subject of metre is length of 
 line. A long line is more stately, a short line more 
 abrupt, passional, and intense. A short line in con- 
 nection with longer lines, generally contains more 
 weight, and such an increase of intensive feeling as 
 causes its rendering to be slow, requiring about as 
 much time as one of the longer lines. The short 
 line suggests the necessity of a pause. It is usually 
 found in lyric poetry ; rarely in dramatic. 
 
 The pecuhar variation in length of line found in 
 the Pindaric ode belongs almost entirely to lyric 
 poetry. Monologues and dramatic poems are fre- 
 quently found in blank verse. 
 
The Monologue and Metre 199 
 
 We find here a pecuHar principle existing. In 
 blank verse there is greater variation of the feet 
 than in almost any other form of poetry, and yet in 
 this the length of hne is most fixed. In the Pin- 
 daric ode, on the contrary, where the foot is more 
 regular, there are great variations in the length of 
 line. Is there not discoverable here a law, that 
 where length of line is more fixed, metre is more 
 variable, but where length of line is more variable, 
 the metric feet tend to be more regular ? 
 
 Art is "order in play"; the free, spontaneous 
 variation is play ; the fixed or regular elements give 
 the sense of order. True art always accentuates 
 both order and play, not in antagonistic opposition, 
 but in sympathetic union. Whenever the order is 
 more apparent in one direction, there is greater 
 freedom of play in another, and the reverse. 
 
 We find this principle specially manifest in pan- 
 tomimic expression. Man is only free and flexible 
 in the use of his arms and limbs when he has a 
 stability of poise and when his movement ends 
 in a stable attitude. There is opposition between 
 motions and positions. 
 
 This important law has been overlooked both in 
 action and in vocal expression. It is not quite the 
 same as Delsarte's law: "Stability is character- 
 istic of the centre ; flexibility, of the surface." 
 While this is true, the necessary co-ordination of 
 the transcendence of stability of attitude over 
 motion is also a necessary law of all expression. 
 
 Before trying to lay down any general law 
 regarding metre as a mode of expression, let us 
 examine a few monologues in various feet. 
 
 Notice the use of the trochee to express the lov- 
 ing entreaty in "A Woman's Last Word " (p. 6). 
 
200 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 To give this a careless rendering with its metric 
 movement confused, as is often done, totally per- 
 verts its meaning and spirit. The accent on the 
 initial word of the hne gives an intensity of feeling 
 with tender persuasiveness. This accent must be 
 strong and vigorous, followed by a most delicate 
 touch upon the following syllables : — 
 
 " Be a god, and hold me 
 With a charm ! 
 Be a man, and fold me 
 With thine arm ! " 
 
 One who has little sense of metre should try to 
 read this poem in some different foot. He will 
 soon become conscious of the discord. When once 
 he catches the spirit of the poem with his own voice, 
 he will experience a satisfaction and confidence in 
 his rhythmic instinct, and in his voice as its agent, 
 that will enable him to render the poem with power. 
 
 Note in this poem also the shortness of the lines, 
 which express the abrupt outbursts of intense feel- 
 ing. The fact that every other line ends upon an 
 accented syllable adds intensity, sincerity, and 
 earnestness to the tender appeal. The delicate 
 beauty of the rhymes also aids in idealizing the 
 speaker's character. The whole form is beauti- 
 fully adapted to express her endeavor to lift her 
 husband out of his suspicious and ignoble jealousy 
 to a higher plane. 
 
 Browning s "In a Year" has seemingly the same 
 foot and the same length of line as "A Woman's 
 Last Word," but how different its effect! "In a 
 Year" is made up of bursts of passion from an 
 overburdened heart. It seems more subjective or 
 more of a soliloquy. 
 
 There is not the same direct appeal to another. 
 
The Monologue and Metre 201 
 
 but no print can give the difference between the 
 emotional movement of the two poems. In both, 
 the trochaic foot and the very short line indicate 
 abrupt outpouring of feeling. 
 
 Compare these two poems carefully. What is 
 the significance of the form given them by Brown- 
 ing, the metre, the length of line, and the stanzas ? 
 Why are the stanzas of "In a Year" longer than 
 those of **A Woman's Last Word" ? What is the 
 effect of the difference in rhyme of these two 
 poems ? Does one detect any difference in the 
 metric movement? 
 
 IN A YEAR 
 
 Never any more, 
 
 While I live, 
 Need I hope to see his face 
 
 As before. 
 Once his love grown chill, 
 
 Mine may strive: 
 Bitterly we re-embrace, 
 
 Single still. 
 
 Was it something said, 
 
 Something done. 
 Vexed him ? was it touch of hand, 
 
 Turn of head ? 
 Strange ! that very way 
 
 Love begun: 
 I as little understand 
 
 Love's decay. 
 
 When I sewed or drew,. 
 
 I recall 
 How he looked as if I sung, 
 
 — Sweetly too. 
 If I spoke a word. 
 
 First of all 
 Up his cheek the color sprung. 
 
 Then he heard. 
 
202 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Sitting by my side, 
 
 At my feet, 
 So he breathed but air I breathed, 
 
 Satisfied ! 
 I, too, at love's brim 
 
 Touched the sweet: 
 I would die if death bequeathed 
 
 Sweet to him. 
 
 *' Speak, I love thee best!" 
 
 He exclaimed: 
 **Let thy love my own foretell ! " 
 
 I confessed: 
 "Clasp my heart on thine 
 
 Now unblamed, 
 Since upon thy soul as well 
 
 Hangeth mine ! " 
 
 Was it wrong to own, 
 
 Being truth ? 
 Why should all the giving prove 
 
 His alone ? 
 I had wealth and ease. 
 
 Beauty, youth: 
 Since my lover gave me love, 
 
 I gave these. 
 
 That was all I meant, 
 
 — To be just, 
 
 And the passion I had raised, 
 
 To content. 
 Since he chose to change 
 
 Gold for dust. 
 If I gave him what he praised 
 
 Was it strange? 
 
 Would he loved me yet. 
 
 On and on, 
 While I found some way undreamed 
 
 — Paid my debt ! 
 Gave more life and more. 
 
 Till all gone, 
 He should smile "She never seemed 
 Mine before. 
 
The Monologue and Metre 203 
 
 *'What, she felt the while. 
 
 Must I think ? 
 Love 's so different with us men ! " 
 
 He should smile: 
 "Dying for my sake — 
 
 White and pink ! 
 Can't we touch these bubbles then 
 
 But they break ? " 
 
 Dear, the pang is brief, 
 
 Do thy part, 
 Have thy pleasure ! How perplexed 
 
 Grows belief ! 
 Well, this cold clay clod 
 
 Was man's heart: 
 Crumble it, and what comes next ? 
 
 Is it God ? 
 
 Why is "Herve Rfel" in trochaic movement? 
 It is heroic; why not then iambic? The poem 
 opens in a mood of anxiety, a state of suspense, 
 a fear of the certain loss of the fleet. When 
 hope revives and Herve Riel is introduced in the 
 words, 
 
 "For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these,** 
 
 we have a line of mixed anapestic and iambic feet, 
 expressive of resolution, courage, and confidence; 
 so with the first and second lines of the sixth stanza 
 expressing indignation at the pilots ; also in much 
 of his speech to the admirals. 
 
 If the poet had led us sympathetically to identify 
 ourselves with Herve Kiel's resolution and en- 
 deavor, the metre would have been anapestic or 
 iambic, but he gives the feeling of admiration for 
 Herve Riel and we are made to contemplate how 
 easily he performed his great deed, and hence the 
 
204 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 prevailing trochaic movement is one of the charms 
 of the poem. 
 
 Criticism of this poem, such as I have heard, 
 reveals a lack of appreciation of the dramatic 
 spirit of metre. The trochaic delicately expresses 
 the emotional feeling, admiration, and tenderness 
 for the forgotten hero, as well as the anxiety and 
 realization of danger in the first parts of the poem. 
 The change to the iambic in the central part of the 
 poem only proves the real character of the trochaic 
 feet, and, in fact, accentuates their spirit. The 
 trochee seems in general to indicate an outpouring 
 of emotion or sudden burst of feeling too strong 
 for control. Many of the most tender and prayer- 
 ful hymns have this foot. It expresses also, at 
 times, a sense of uneasiness or restlessness. 
 
 The reader must take these statements, however, 
 as mere suggestions, for the very first poem written 
 in this metre that he reads may give expression to 
 a different spirit. So complex, so mysterious, is the 
 metric expression of feeling, that no one poem can 
 be made a standard for another. 
 
 The iambic foot, more than any other, expresses 
 controlled passion, — passion expressed with de- 
 liberation. It implies resolution, confidence, or 
 the heroic carrying out of an intention. While the 
 trochee suggests the bursting out of feeling against 
 the will, the iambic may suggest the spontaneous 
 cumulation of emotion under the dominion of will 
 with a definite purpose or conscious realization of 
 a situation. The iambic can express passion con- 
 trolled for an end, the trochee seems rather to float 
 with the passion or be thrust forward by waves or 
 bursts of feeling, which the will is trying to hold 
 back. 
 
The Monologue and Metre 205 
 
 Note the predominant metric movement of 
 "Rabbi Ben Ezra," and how it expresses the con- 
 fidence and noble conviction of the venerable 
 Rabbi. 
 
 Why is "The Last Ride Together'' iambic? 
 Because no other metre could so well express the 
 nobility of the hero, his endurance, his refusal to 
 yield to despair or become antagonistic, his self- 
 control, and the preservation of his hopefulness 
 when all his "life seemed meant for fails." 
 
 THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER 
 
 I SAID — Then, dearest, since 't is so. 
 Since now at length my fate I know. 
 Since nothing al my love avails. 
 Since all my life seemed meant for fails. 
 
 Since this was written and needs must be — 
 My whole heart rises up to bless 
 Your name in pride and thankfulness ! 
 Take back the hope you gave, — I claim 
 Only a memory of the same, 
 — And this beside, if you will not blame. 
 
 Your leave for one more last ride with me. 
 
 My mistress bent that brow of hers; 
 Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs 
 When pity would be softening through. 
 Fixed me a breathing-while or two 
 
 With life or death in the balance : right ! 
 The blood replenished me again; 
 My last thought was at least not vain: 
 I and my mistress, side by side, 
 Shall be together, breathe and ride. 
 So, one day more am I deified. 
 
 Who knows but the world may end to-night ? 
 
 Hush ! if you saw some western cloud 
 
 All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed 
 
 By many benedictions — sun's 
 
 And moon's and evening- star's at once — 
 
2o6 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 And so, you, looking and loving best, 
 Conscious grew, your passion drew 
 Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, 
 Down on you, near and yet more near, 
 Till flesh must fade for heaven was here ! — 
 Thus leant she and lingered — joy and fear ! 
 
 Thus lay she a moment on my breast. 
 
 Then we began to ride. My soul 
 Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll 
 Freshening and fluttering in the wind. 
 Past hopes already lay behind. 
 
 What need to strive with a life awry ? 
 Had I said that, had I done this. 
 So might I gain, so might I miss. 
 Might she have loved me ? just as well 
 She might have hated, who can tell ! 
 Where had I been now if the worst befell ? 
 
 And here we are riding, she and I. 
 
 Fail I alone, in words and deeds ? 
 Why, all men strive and who succeeds ? 
 We rode; it seemed my spirit flew. 
 Saw other regions, cities new. 
 
 As the world rushed by on either side. 
 I thought, — All labor, yet no less 
 Bear up beneath their unsuccess. 
 Look at the end of work, contrast 
 The petty done, the undone vast, 
 This present of theirs with the hopeful past ! 
 
 I hoped she would love me; here we ride. 
 
 What hand and brain went ever paired ? 
 What heart alike conceived and dared ? 
 What act proved all its thought had been ? 
 What will but felt the fleshy screen } 
 
 We ride and I see her bosom heave. 
 There 's many a crown for who can reach. 
 Ten lines, a statesman's life in each ! 
 The flag stuck on a heap of bones, 
 A soldier's doing ! what atones ? 
 They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. 
 
 My riding is better, by their leave. 
 
The Monologue and Metre 207 
 
 What does it all mean, poet ? Well, 
 Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell 
 What we felt only; you expressed 
 You hold things beautiful the best, 
 
 And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 
 'T is something, nay 't is much : but then, 
 Have you yourself what 's best for men ? 
 Are you — poor, sick, old ere your time — 
 Nearer one whit your own sublime 
 Than we who have never turned a rhyme ? 
 
 Sing, riding 's a joy ! For me, I ride. 
 
 And you, great sculptor — so, you gave 
 A score of years to Art, her slave. 
 And that 's your Venus, whence we turn 
 To yonder girl that fords the burn ! 
 
 You acquiesce, and shall I repine } 
 What, man of music, you grown gray 
 With notes and nothing else to say. 
 Is this your sole praise from a friend, 
 *' Greatly his opera's strains intend. 
 But in music we know how fashions end ! " 
 
 I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine. 
 
 Who knows what 's fit for us ? Had fate 
 Proposed bliss here should sublimate 
 My being — had I signed the bond — 
 Still one must lead some life beyond. 
 
 Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. 
 This foot once planted on the goal. 
 This glory-garland round my soul. 
 Could I descry such ? Try and test ! 
 I sink back shuddering from the quest. 
 Earth being so good, would heaven seem best ? 
 
 Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. 
 
 And yet — she has not spoke so long ! 
 What if heaven be that, fair and strong 
 At life's best, with our eyes upturned 
 Whither life's flower is first discerned. 
 We, fixed so, ever should so abide ? 
 
2o8 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 What if we still ride on, we two, 
 With life forever old yet new. 
 Changed not in kind but in degree, 
 The instant made eternity, — 
 And heaven just prove that I and she 
 Ride, ride together, forever ride ? 
 
 Adequate rendering of this poem requires a very 
 decided touch upon the strong foot, that is, an 
 accentuation of the iambic movement. Notice 
 also the two, three, or four long syllables at the 
 first of many lines (such as lines six, seven, and 
 eight), showing the passion and the intense con- 
 trol. Observe the almost completely spondaic line, 
 indicating deliberation, patient waiting, or intense, 
 pent-up feeling held in poise : 
 
 "Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs,'* 
 
 and then the short syllables and lyric effect in the 
 next line. Note the strong isolation of the word 
 "right" at the end of the fifth line, stanza two. 
 
 Notice that in stanza four, when the ride begins, 
 the first foot is not iambic, but choriambic ; yet all 
 through the poem where manly resolution and con- 
 fidence is asserted and expressed, the iambic move- 
 ment is strong. 
 
 Tennyson's "Lady Clara Vere de Vere " (p. 50) 
 expresses the severity and earnestness of the 
 speaker by the predominance of iambic feet, while 
 the sudden uneasiness, or burst of passion, is best 
 expressed by trochaic feet. Note the effect of the 
 first line of most of the stanzas, then the quick 
 change to iambic movement expressing the rebuke 
 which is the real theme of the poem. 
 
 The spondee is found in solemn hymns or in 
 any verse expressing reverence and awe. It is con- 
 
The Monologue and Metre 209 
 
 templative and poised, and is frequently blended 
 with other feet, especially with iambic, to express 
 dehberation. 
 
 In Browning's "Prospice," the iambus predom- 
 inates, and expresses heroic endurance and cour- 
 age in meeting death; but the first foot — "Fear 
 death " — is a spondee, and indicates the dehbera- 
 tive reahzation of the situation. It is the straight- 
 ening up, as it were, of the whole manhood of the 
 soldier before he begins his battle with death. 
 
 Very forcible are the occasional spondees in " Abt 
 Vogler." These give dignity and weight and sus- 
 tain the contemplative and reverent meditations. 
 
 It will be noted that the dactyl is very closely 
 related in expression to the trochee, and the 
 anapest to the iambic. Triple rhythm or metre, 
 however, implies a more circular and flowing 
 movement. The dactyl is used in some of the 
 most pathetic and passionate monologues of the 
 language. Notice the fine use of it in Hood's 
 "Bridge of Sighs." 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 
 
 One more unfortunate, weary of breath, rashly importunate, gone 
 to her death ! Take her up tenderly, lift her with care ; fashion 'd 
 so slenderly, young, and so fair ! 
 
 Look at her garments clinging like cerements, whilst the wave 
 constantly drips from her clothing ; take her up instantly, loving, not 
 loathing. Touch her not scornfully ; think of her mournfully, gently 
 and humanly ; not of the stains of her — all that remains of her now, 
 is pure womanly. 
 
 Make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny rash and undutiful : past 
 all dishonor, death has left on her only the beautiful. Still, for all 
 slips of hers, one of Eve's family — wipe those poor lips of hers ooz- 
 ing so clammily. Loop up her tresses escaped from the comb, her 
 fair auburn tresses; whilst wonderment guesses where was her 
 home? 
 
 Who was her father ? Who was her mother ? Had she a sister ? 
 
 14 
 
210 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Had she a brother ? Or was there a dearer one still, and a nearer one 
 yet, than all other ? Alas ! for the rarity of Christian charity under 
 the sun ! O ! it was pitiful ! near a whole city full, home she had 
 none. Sisterly, brotherly, fatherly, motherly feelings had changed: 
 love, by harsh evidence, thrown from its eminence; even God's 
 providence seeming estranged. 
 
 Where the lamps quiver so far in the river, with many a light, 
 from window and casement, from garret to basement, she stood, 
 with amazement, houseless by night. The bleak wind of March 
 made her tremble and shiver; but not the dark arch, or the black, 
 flowing river; mad from life's history, glad to death's mystery swift 
 to be hurl'd — anywhere, anywhere out of the world ! In she plunged 
 boldly, no matter how coldly the rough river ran, over the brink of 
 it, — picture it, think of it, dissolute Man ! lave in it, drink of it, 
 then, if you can ! 
 
 Take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fashion'd so slenderly, 
 young and so fair ! Ere her limbs frigidly stiffen too rigidly, decently, 
 kindly, smooth and compose them ; and her eyes close them, staring 
 so blindly ! Dreadfully staring through muddy impurity, as when 
 with the daring last look of despairing fix'd on futurity. 
 
 Perishing gloomily, spurr'd by contumely, cold inhumanity burn- 
 ing insanity into her rest. — Cross her hands humbly, as if praying 
 dumbly, over her breast ! Owning her weakness, her evil behavior, 
 and leaving, with meekness, her sins to her Saviour ! 
 
 Some persons may not regard this poem as a 
 monologue. But if not rendered by a union of 
 dramatic and lyric elements, it will be given, as it 
 often is, as a kind of a stump speech to an audience 
 on the banks of the Thames over the body of some 
 poor, betrayed woman, who has ended her hfe in 
 that murky stream. 
 
 It is true that we are little concerned with the 
 character of the speaker, and the feeling is in- 
 tensely lyric and universal. But the situation is 
 so definite, and the "One more unfortunate" is so 
 vividly portrayed to us, that it is, at least, partly 
 dramatic. Even those who are caring for the body 
 are directly addressed : 
 
The Monologue and Metre 211 
 
 "Take her up tenderly. 
 Lift her with care." 
 
 It is a lyric monologue. 
 
 The sad, passionate outbursts can hardly be sug- 
 gested by any other metre than that which is used 
 by Hood, and we feel that its choice is singularly 
 appropriate. The poem is intensely subjective. 
 The conceptions regarding the life just closed 
 arise through the natural association of ideas. 
 The speaker thinks and feels definitely before us. 
 The whirling circles suggested by the dactyl, with 
 the occasional passionate break of a single accented 
 word or syllable at the end of a line, assist the 
 reader. Without such dactylic movement, the 
 vocal expression of a pathos so intense would be 
 hardly possible to the human voice. 
 
 Notice the two long syllables at the very begin- 
 ning of the poem expressive of the stunned effect at 
 the discovery of the body. 
 
 Render the poem printed as prose to avoid the 
 sing-song of short hues, and note that in propor- 
 tion to the depth of passion the metre becomes pro- 
 nounced. It is impossible to read it in its proper 
 spirit when not correctly rendering its metric 
 rhythm. 
 
 The dactyl is used with a very similar effect in 
 Austin Dobson's "Before Sedan" (p. 84). 
 
 What a difference is expressed by the use of these 
 same feet, with greater changes, and in longer lines, 
 in Browning's "The Lost Leader"! Restlessness 
 is here expressed, arising not from pathos, but from 
 indignation and disappointment. The rhythmic 
 movement of the metre is totally different in this 
 case. While the feet may be mechanically the 
 same, the length of the hues and the rhyth- 
 
212 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 mic spirit differ greatly in the two poems. The 
 feeling is different, the tone- color of the voice 
 not the same, and the whole expression differs, 
 though in a mechanical scanning they seem nearly 
 ahke. 
 
 THE LOST LEADER 
 
 Just for a handful of silver he left us, 
 
 Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat, — 
 Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 
 
 Lost all the others, she lets us devote; 
 They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver. 
 
 So much was theirs who so little allowed : 
 How all our copper had gone for his service ! 
 
 Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud ! 
 We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him. 
 
 Lived in his mild and magnificent eye. 
 Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, 
 
 Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
 Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us. 
 
 Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their graves ! 
 He alone breaks from the van and the freemen. 
 
 He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 
 
 We shall march prospering, — not thro' his presence ; 
 
 Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre ; 
 Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence, 
 
 Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire; 
 Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more. 
 
 One task more declined, one more footpath untrod. 
 One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, 
 
 One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! 
 Life's night begins: let him never come back to us ! 
 
 There would be doubt, hesitation and pain. 
 Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight, 
 
 Never glad confident morning again ! 
 Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gallantly. 
 
 Menace our heart ere we master his own; 
 Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, 
 
 Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! 
 
The Monologue and Metre 213 
 
 . One aid in realizing metre as an element of ex- 
 pression is to examine a poem printed as prose and 
 attempt to discover the peculiar value and force of 
 the metric forms, length of lines, length of the 
 stanzas, and even the rhymes. All these in a true 
 poem are expressive. There is nothing really 
 artificial or accidental in a true poetic or artistic 
 form. (See p. 175 and p. 209.) 
 
 Many poems in this book and in the accompany- 
 ing monologues for further study are printed as 
 prose, not because metre and length of line are un- 
 important, but for the very opposite reason. The 
 form of a printed poem is so apt to be disregarded 
 or considered a mere matter of print that this 
 unusual method of printing a poem is adopted 
 to furnish opportunity for the reader to work out 
 for himself the metre and other elements of the 
 form. In reading over a poem thus printed, al- 
 most any one will become conscious of the metric 
 movement, and in every case the metric structure 
 and length of line should be indicated and felt by 
 the reader. 
 
 There is never, in a fine poem, especially in a 
 dramatic poem, a mere mechanical and regular 
 succession of the same foot, though one foot may 
 predominate and give the general spirit to the 
 whole. True metre never interferes with thinking 
 or with the processes of natural speech; on the 
 contrary, it is an aid to thinking, feeling, and vocal 
 expression. 
 
 If the student will think and feel intensely such 
 a poem as "Rabbi Ben Ezra" (p. 36), and will 
 strongly accentuate the metre, he will find that he 
 can read it easily, because, when true to its objec- 
 tive form, he is the better able to give its spirit. 
 
214 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Innumerable changes in the metric feet occur in 
 Browning's "Saul," in "Abt Vogler," or in any 
 great poem. The more deeply we become imbued 
 with the spirit of a poem, the more do we feel that 
 these variations are necessary. 
 
 The reader must be slow to criticize a seeming 
 discord in metre. An apparent fault may appear 
 as a real excellence after one has genuinely seized 
 the true spirit of the passage. 
 
 Notice, for example, the discord in the word 
 "ravines" in Coleridge's "Hymn before Sun- 
 rise." It gives a sudden arrest of feeling almost 
 as if one stood trembling on the verge of a preci- 
 pice. With mechanical regularity of feet such 
 an impression could not be made. A great mu- 
 sical composer weaves in discords as a means 
 of expression, and the same is true of a great 
 master of metre. In nearly all cases where there 
 is a seeming discord of metre, some peculiar 
 vocal expression is necessary. "Ravines" com- 
 pels a good reader to make an emphatic pause 
 after it. 
 
 The importance of pause in relation to metre has 
 often been overlooked. In Tennyson's "Break, 
 break, break," we have a most artistic presenta- 
 tion of only the strong w^ords of the metric line. A 
 period of silence is necessary in order to give the 
 whole line its movement. It requires as much 
 time as if it had its full complement of syllables. 
 This suggests the depth of the emotion. Such 
 pauses, however, bring us to the subject of rhythm 
 rather than metre. They have a wonderful effect 
 in awakening a perception of the spirit of the 
 poem. 
 
 Notice in "My Last Duchess" (p. 96), the lack 
 
The Monologue and Metre 215 
 
 of rhyme, the stilted blank verse, the tendency 
 towards iambic feet, — possibly to show the domi- 
 neering and tyrannical spirit of the character. The 
 almost prosaic irregularity of the feet is certainly 
 very expressive of his thinking and feeling. It is 
 easy, in this passage, to realize the appropriate 
 expressiveness of Browning's metre. 
 
 The metre of "A Death in the Desert" seems to 
 a dull ear the same as that in "My Last Duchess." 
 But let one render carefully the dying John in con- 
 trast with the Duke. What a difference ! How 
 smooth the flow, what dignified intensity, when the 
 beloved disciple gives his visions of the future ! The 
 spirit of the two when interpreted by the voice differ 
 in the metric movement. What a rollicking good- 
 nature is suggested appropriately by the metre 
 of "Sally in our Alley" (p. 121). Imagine this 
 young fellow telling his story, as he walks along. 
 It would be impossible for him to talk in a steady, 
 straight-forward iambic, or even in the hesitat- 
 ing, emotional trochee. His passion comes in 
 gusts and outbursts, so that now and then he leaps 
 into a kind of dance. The poem is wholly con- 
 sistent with the character, and the metre is not 
 the least important means of revealing the spirit 
 of the emotions and sentiments. Plain, prosaic 
 criticism, however, can hardly touch it. The char- 
 acteristic spirit of the lad must be so deeply appre- 
 ciated and felt as to lift the whole, notwithstanding 
 its homely character, into the realm of exalted 
 poetry, in fact, into a rare union of lyric and dra- 
 matic elements. 
 
 Notice, too, in " Up at a Villa — Down in the 
 City" (p. 65), that the very mood, the very way 
 an "Italian Person of Quahty " would stand, walk, 
 
21 6 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 saunter along, loll in a chair, roll his head, or swing 
 his feet, are suggested by the metric movement. 
 Changes of movement are required to show the 
 person's change of feeling and action. Quicker 
 pulsation at his exaltation over the city will de- 
 mand a swifter movement, while the slow, retarded 
 rhythm will show contempt for the villa. Through 
 the whole, the unity of the feet, the seeming careless- 
 ness, and the constant variation which suggests the 
 commonplace character of the person, are part of 
 the humorous impression made upon us. The 
 metre, in this case, as in all monologues expressive 
 of humor, must give the real spirit of the character ; 
 when once we realize the situation and the feeling, 
 the right vocal expression of the metric form is a 
 natural result. 
 
 Observe the grotesque humor, not only of the 
 rhymes such as ** eye's tail up" and "chromatic 
 scale up," but also the peculiar feet in Browning's 
 "Youth and Art" (p. 21). The most common foot 
 in the poem, an amphibrachys, three syllables with 
 the middle one long, is often used with comical or 
 grotesque effect in poems full of humor. The last 
 line, however, full of tenderness and sadness, is 
 trochaic. 
 
 Observe the tenderness of "Evelyn Hope." 
 
 EVELYN HOPE 
 
 Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead ! 
 
 Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
 That is her book-shelf, this her bed; 
 
 She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
 Beginning to die too, in the glass; 
 
 Little has yet been changed, I think: 
 The shutters are shut, no light may pass 
 
 Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. 
 
The Monologue and Metre 217 
 
 Sixteen years old when she died ! 
 
 Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; 
 It was not her time to love ; beside, 
 
 Her life had many a hope and aim, 
 Duties enough and little cares. 
 
 And now was quiet, now astir, 
 Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 
 
 And the sweet white brow is all of her. 
 
 Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope ? 
 
 What, your soul was pure and true, 
 The good stars met in your horoscope. 
 
 Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 
 And, just because I was thrice as old 
 
 And our paths in the world diverged so wide. 
 Each was naught to each, must I be told ? 
 
 We were fellow mortals, naught beside ? 
 
 No, indeed ! for God above 
 
 Is great to grant, as mighty to make. 
 And creates the love to reward the love: 
 
 I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
 Delayed it may be for more lives yet. 
 
 Thro' worlds I shall traverse, not a few: 
 Much is to learn, much to forget 
 
 Ere the time be come for taking you. 
 
 But the time will come, at last it will, 
 
 When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) 
 In the lower earth, in the years long still. 
 
 That body and soul so pure and gay ? 
 Why your hair was amber, I shall divine. 
 
 And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
 And what you would do with me, in fine. 
 
 In the new life come in the old one's stead. 
 
 I have lived (I shall say) so much since then. 
 
 Given up myself so many times, 
 Gained me the gains of various men, 
 
 Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 
 Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 
 
 Either I missed or itself missed me: 
 And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 
 
 What is the issue ? let us see ! 
 
21 8 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 
 
 My heart seemed full as it could hold; 
 There was place and to spare for the frank young smile. 
 
 And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
 So hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep : 
 
 See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand ! 
 There, that is our secret : go to sleep ! 
 
 You will wake, and remember, and understand. 
 
 Note especially the transition from the trochees, ex- 
 pressive of tender love and feeling, in stanza three, 
 to the iambics, expressing conviction and confi- 
 dence, in the following stanzas : 
 
 "For God above 
 Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
 And creates the love to reward the love: 
 I claim you still, for my own love's sake." 
 
 In Browning's "One Way of Love" (p. 150) the 
 iambics in the first lines express determination 
 and endeavor, but there is a decided change in the 
 metric movement caused by the agitation, disap- 
 pointment, and deep feeling of the last two lines 
 of each stanza. 
 
 It is never possible to study metre in cold blood. 
 It is the language of the heart. Only an occasional 
 versifier in a critical or intellectual spirit grinds out 
 a machine-made metre, every foot of which can be 
 scanned according to rule. 
 
 A poem which is written seemingly in one metric 
 measure will be found, when read aloud with proper 
 feeling, to have several. Contrast the last stanza 
 with the third from the last of "In a Year" 
 (p. 201), and one feels that the third from the last 
 has the stronger iambic movement. This possibly 
 expresses hope, or impetuous longing, while the last, 
 returning to the trochee, expresses intense despair. 
 At any rate, these two stanzas cannot be read ahke. 
 
The Monologue and Metre 219 
 
 Of course, a different conception on the part of the 
 reader would affect the metre. The interpreter 
 must take such hints as he finds, complete them by 
 his imagination, and so assimilate the poem as to 
 express its metre adequately by the voice. The 
 living voice is the only revealer, as the ear is the 
 only true judge, of metre. 
 
 In "Confessions" (p. 7), the waking of the sick 
 man, his confusion, his uncertainty whether he has 
 heard aright, and his repetition of the words of his 
 visitor, are given with trochaic movement, while 
 his own conviction and answer are given in iam- 
 bics ; yet his story, possibly on account of the ten- 
 derness of recollections, frequently returns to the 
 trochaic movement. 
 
 In the same way, to his question 
 
 *'. . . Is the curtain blue 
 Or green to a healthy eye ? " 
 
 he gives a slightly trochaic effect as a recognition 
 of his own sick condition. A positive settling of the 
 question by his own illustration is indicated by the 
 emphasis of the iambic movement in the next line. 
 
 These are illustrations only. Two persons who 
 have thoroughly assimilated the spirit of a poem, 
 may not completely agree concerning its metre. 
 It is not necessary nor best that they should. There 
 are delicate variations which show spontaneously 
 the difference in the realization of the two readers. 
 
 Such personal variations, however, which result 
 from peculiar experiences and types of character, 
 must not be confused with the careless breaking 
 of the metre which we hear from all our actors and 
 public readers. The latter is the result of igno- 
 rance and lack of understanding and reaHzation. 
 
220 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 The late Henry A. Clapp, criticizing a prominent I 
 actor in "Julius Caesar," broke forth in a kind of 
 despair and said : "After all, where could he go to 
 find adequate methods for the development of a 
 true sense of metre ?" 
 
 Metre will never be fully understood until studied 
 in connection with vocal expression, nor will vocal 
 expression ever rise to its true place until apphed 
 to the interpretation not only of poetic thought, but 
 of such elements of poetic form as metre. And 
 where can a better means be found for both steps 
 than the study of the monologue ? 
 
 The student should observe the metre as well as 
 the thought of every monologue he examines, and 
 read it aloud, attending faithfully to the spirit of its 
 metric expression. So poor is the ordinary render- 
 ing of metre, that it is almost impossible to tell 
 the metre from the ordinary reading. 
 
 Trochaic metre is often read, as if it were a 
 kind of crude iambic. When one is in the mood 
 or spirit of one foot, unless he has imaginative 
 and emotional flexibility, all feet will be read as 
 practically the same. I have known readers, 
 speakers, and actors who have completely lost the 
 dactylic and even the trochaic spirit or mode of 
 expression. 
 
 Let any one select a poem and render it succes- 
 sively with different metres and note the effect. 
 We must often be made to feel the power of wrong 
 vocal expression to pervert a poem before we can 
 realize the force of right voice modulation in inter- 
 preting its spirit. 
 
 The student must realize each metric foot as an 
 objective expression of a subjective feeling. Doubt 
 is often felt even by the best critics, and great differ- 
 
The Monologue and Metre 221 
 
 ence of opinion exists among them, but the reader 
 who understands vocal expression, studies into the 
 heart of the poem and uses his own voice to express 
 his intuition, will settle most of these difficulties 
 satisfactorily to himself. Vocal interpretation is 
 the last criterion of metric expression. 
 
 The universal lack of attention to metre is, no 
 doubt, connected with a universal neglect of the 
 expressive modulations of the voice. In our day 
 the printed word and not the spoken word is re- 
 garded as the real word. This has gone so far that 
 some educated men seem to regard metre as solely 
 a matter of print. 
 
 While metre may be one of the last points to be 
 considered, it is not the least important to study; 
 nor is it, when mastered, the least useful to the 
 thought, feeling, imagination, and passion, or to 
 the right action of the voice in interpreting the 
 spirit of the monologue. 
 
 There is an almost universal tendency to regard 
 as superficial, actors and those capable of inter- 
 preting human experience by the living voice. Men 
 who should have known better have said that it is 
 not mental force but simply a certain peculiarity 
 of temperament that gives dramatic power. 
 
 One of the most important things to be sought 
 is the better understanding of the psychology of 
 dramatic instinct. I have already tried to awaken 
 some attention to the peculiar nature and impor- 
 tance of this in "Imagination and Dramatic In- 
 stinct," but the subject is by no means exhausted. 
 That discussion was meant only as a beginning. 
 
 When actors and public readers feel it necessary 
 to train the voice and the ear, to develop imagina- 
 tion and feeling, to apprehend the true nature of 
 
222 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 human art, and to meditate profoundly over the 
 spirit of some great poem; when they treat their 
 own art with respect and give themselves technical 
 training, adequate metric expression will begin to 
 be possible. 
 
 At present, it must be said in sorrow that the 
 ablest actors and most prominent public readers 
 blur and pervert the most beautiful lines in the 
 language. They seem blind to differences as great 
 as those between the sunflower and the rose. 
 
 XIII. DIALECT 
 
 Many monologues, especially the most popular 
 ones are written in dialect; and frequently the 
 public reader or interpreter gives his chief attention 
 to the accurate reproduction of characteristic vow- 
 els, odd pronunciation of words, and the externals 
 of the manner of speaking. The writer also often 
 seems to make these matters of the greatest impor- 
 tance. What is the real meaning of dialect ? How 
 far is it allowable ? Is it ever necessary ? What 
 principles apply to its use ? 
 
 Dialect is one of the accidental expressions of 
 character, and must be dramatic or it is worth 
 nothing. It sometimes adds coloring by giving a 
 grotesque effect ; helps to produce an illusion ; or 
 aids the reader or hearer to create a more definite 
 conception of the character speaking and hence to 
 appreciate more fully the thought, feeling, and 
 spirit. It is a kind of literary or vocal stage make- 
 up that enables the reader or auditor to recognize 
 the character. 
 
Dialect 223 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley has chosen the homely 
 Hoosier dialect as the clothing of the speaker in 
 most of his monologues. As Burns spoke in the 
 Scottish dialect which was simple and native to 
 his heart, so Riley seems to consider the dialect of 
 his native State the best medium for conveying 
 the pecuhar feelings and experiences of types of 
 character with which his life has been directly 
 associated. 
 
 There is justification for this, for it is well known 
 that Burns 's best poems are those in Scottish dia- 
 lect. His English poems, with one or two possible 
 exceptions, are weaker, and in them he seems to 
 be using a foreign language. Poetry is very near 
 the human soul ; and when the dialect is native to 
 the heart, a quaint mode of expression may be 
 necessary to the dramatic spirit of the thought. 
 
 As a character of a certain type may be an aid to 
 the conception of a thought or sentiment, so the 
 experiences of a character may be better suggested 
 by dialect. In that case, it is justifiable, if not 
 indeed a dramatic necessity. 
 
 In Enghsh some of the ablest writers have em- 
 ployed dialect. Tennyson uses dialect in his mono- 
 logue of the "Northern Farmer," and he is possibly 
 our most careful author since Gray. The French 
 do not use dialect poems to such an extent as Eng- 
 lish and American writers. They regard dialect 
 as a degradation of language. The Proven 9al 
 writers take their peculiar langue d'oc too seriously 
 to regard it as a dialect. American wTiters, espe- 
 cially, think too much of dialect. A young writer 
 often employs much dialect in a first book, but in 
 a second or third, the spelling indicates the dialect 
 less literally and with more suggestion of its dra- 
 
224 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 matic spirit. There are many instances where the 
 earher and the later books of an author present 
 marked contrasts in this respect. 
 
 Public readers, especially, devote too much at- 
 tention to the mere literal facts of dialect. Readers 
 who give no attention to characterization or dra- 
 matic instinct pride themselves upon their mastery 
 of many dialects. Their work is purely imitative 
 and external. In representing a dialect, the general 
 principles of expression, the laws of consistency and 
 harmony, must be carefully considered by both the 
 writer and the reader. 
 
 In general, the greatest masters of dialect are 
 those who use dialects associated with their own 
 childhood, such as Riley, with the Hoosier dialect. 
 Day, with the Maine Yankee dialect, or Harris, 
 with that of the colored people of Georgia. True 
 dialect must always be the result of sympathy and 
 identification. 
 
 Many writers have been led by a study of peculiar 
 types and through natural imaginative sympathy or 
 humor to understand and appreciate a specific 
 dialect. Dunbar thus writes many of his poems in 
 the peculiar dialect of his race. The reader need 
 not be told that many of his poems are monologues. 
 For a perfect type see "Ne'er Mind, Miss Lucy." 
 Dunbar was led, no doubt, by genuine sympathy or 
 dramatic instinct, to write in the dialect of his race 
 some of his most tender as well as his more humor- 
 ous poems. 
 
 Dr. Drummond, of Montreal, after many experi- 
 ences among the French Canadians, has written 
 several volumes of monologues in which he has 
 introduced to the world some peculiar types of the 
 French Canadian. Their quaint humor is por- 
 
Dialect 225 
 
 trayed with genuine and profound sympathy, and 
 these poems are capable of very intense dramatic 
 interpretation, and are deservedly popular. He 
 preserves not only the peculiarity of the words, but 
 the melodic and rhythmic movement of the dra- 
 matic spirit of his characters. 
 
 DIEUDONNE 
 
 If I sole ma ole blind trotter for fifty dollar cash 
 
 Or win de beeges' prize on lotterie, 
 If some good frien' die an' lef me fines' house on St. Eustache, 
 
 You t'ink I feel more happy dan I be ? 
 
 No, sir ! An' I can tole you, if you never know before, 
 
 W'y de kettle on de stove mak' such a fuss, 
 W'y de robbin stop hees singin' an' come peekin' t'roo de door 
 
 For learn about de nice t'ing 's come to us — 
 
 An' w'en he see de baby lyin' dere upon de bed 
 Lak leetle Son of Mary on de ole tam long ago — 
 
 Wit' de sunshine an' de shadder makin' ring aroun' hees head. 
 No wonder M'sieu Robin wissle low. 
 
 An' we can't help feelin' glad too, so we call heem Dieudonne; 
 
 An' he never cry, dat baby, w'en he's chrissen by de pries'; 
 All de sam' I bet you dollar he '11 waken up some day. 
 
 An' be as bad as leetle boy Bateese. 
 
 There is great danger, however, in employing 
 dialect. When the accidental is made the essential, 
 when dialect is put forward as something interest- 
 ing in itself, or adopted as a mere affectation, or 
 where used by writer or reader independent of the 
 spirit of the poem, of the story, or even of the 
 character, and is regarded as something capable 
 of entertaining by the mere effect of imitation, it 
 becomes insipid and a hindrance. 
 
 Genuine dialect is dramatic. A dialect too liter- 
 ally reproduced will be understood with great diffi- 
 culty, and the reading will cause no enjoyment. 
 
 15 
 
226 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 The fact must be recognized that dialect is only 
 accidental as a means of expression, and hence is 
 justified only when necessary to the portrayal of 
 character, or in manifesting a unique spirit, point 
 of view, or experience. 
 
 Some of the best examples of the dramatic char- 
 acter of dialect in the monologue are found in 
 Kiphng. His Tommy Atkins is so vividly por- 
 trayed that he must necessarily speak in the peculiar 
 manner of a British soldier. Kipling has so iden- 
 tified himself with certain characters that their 
 dramatic assimilation requires dialectic interpreta- 
 tion, as in the case of " Fuzzy- Wuzzy," "Danny 
 Deever," and "Tommy." When dialect is thus 
 inevitable from the dramatic point of view, it is 
 legitimate. 
 
 In fact, while dialect is grotesque and accidental, 
 and even stands upon a low plane, yet, by intense 
 poetic realization, it may be lifted into a more ex- 
 alted place. Energy has been called the father, and 
 joy the mother, of the grotesque. Humor is not 
 inconsistent with the greatest pathos ; in fact, it is 
 necessary to it. The grotesque sometimes becomes 
 the Gothic. 
 
 In "Shamus O'Brien," a monologue formerly 
 popular, many of the characters speak in dialect. 
 Shamus, however, seems to use less dialect on ac- 
 count of the dignity of his character and speech. 
 In all such cases, the accidental becomes less pro- 
 nounced in proportion to the emphasis of the 
 essential. The dialect of the whole poem may be 
 explained by the fact that an Irishman tells the 
 story. 
 
 There seems, however, to be an exception to this. 
 Carlyle, it is said, when expressing the profoundest 
 
Dialect 227 
 
 feeling in conversation always lapsed into broad 
 Scottish dialect. Colonel T. W. Higginson says 
 that he, with another gentleman and Carlyle, once 
 passed through a park belonging to a private estate. 
 Some children were rolhng on the grass, and one 
 boy coming forward timidly, approached Carlyle, 
 whose face seemed to the boy the most kindly dis- 
 posed to children, and said, *' Please, sir, may we 
 roll on the grass ?'' Carlyle broke into the broadest 
 Scotch, "Ye may roll at discretion." 
 
 As already intimated, dialect must not be so ex- 
 treme that the audience cannot easily understand 
 what the reader is saying. All true art is clear ; it 
 is not a puzzle. On account of its theme, and its 
 appeal to the higher faculties, its comprehension 
 may at times require long continued contemplation 
 and earnest endeavor; but an accidental element, 
 such as dialect, must never prevent immediate un- 
 derstanding of the words spoken or thoughts ex- 
 pressed. Dialect must be perfectly transparent. 
 Its whole charm will be lost if it does not give a 
 simple, quaint suggestion of character. 
 
 The chief element of dialect is not in the words 
 or the pronunciation of the elementary sounds but 
 in the melody. Every language has a kind of 
 "accent," as it is called, and it is this "accent" 
 which is most characteristic. Every word may be 
 pronounced correctly, but the artistic reader or 
 actor can suggest immediately by the peculiar 
 melodic form of his phrases whether it is a 
 Frenchman, a German, an Italian, an Irishman, 
 or a Scotsman who speaks. 
 
 In fact, the more subtle, more natural, more 
 suggestive the dialect, the better. It must never 
 be labored ; never be of interest in itself. It is 
 
228 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 secondary to character, to thinking, and even to 
 feehng. 
 
 Dialect should always be the result of assimila- 
 tion rather than imitation. If there is imitation at 
 all, it must be of that higher kind resulting from 
 sympathetic identification and a right use of the 
 dramatic instinct. 
 
 One of the greatest mistakes in rendering dialect 
 consists in taking the printed word as the sole guide. 
 Because a word here and there is spelled oddly, the 
 reader confines the dialect to these words. 
 
 True dialect is not a matter of individual words. 
 It must penetrate the speech ; it never can be more 
 than vaguely suggested in print, and the print can 
 be only a very inadequate guide to the reader. He 
 must go to life itself and study the melodic spirit, 
 the peculiar relations to character, the quaint in- 
 flections and modulations of the voice, which have 
 little to do with mere pronunciation. A Scotch- 
 man may have corrected certain peculiarities of his 
 vowels, or a Frenchman be able to pronounce indi- 
 vidual words accurately, but still both will show a 
 melodic peculiarity, which remains a fundamental 
 characteristic. One who renders monologues and 
 omits this peculiar melodic element will fail to give 
 the fundamental element in dialect. 
 
 Dialect must not only be dramatic and sympa- 
 thetic, but also delicately suggestive and accurate. 
 The accuracy, however, should not be literal. It 
 must be true to the type, and be felt as a part of 
 the background. 
 
 In the rendering of a monologue, in general 
 nothing should be given in dialect unless the dia- 
 lect is directly expressive of the character of the 
 speaker, his views, ideas, or feelings, or unless it 
 
Dialect 229 
 
 is necessary to the complete representation of the 
 ideas, or can add something to the humorous or 
 suggestive force of the thought. 
 
 Peculiarities of dialect are always associated 
 with dramatic action. In fact, dialect is to speech 
 what bearings are to movements. This again 
 shows that dialect is primarily dramatic, and jus- 
 tifies a full discussion of the subject in connection 
 with the dramatic monologue. A mere mechanical 
 imitation of dialect in the pronunciation is wrong 
 from this point of view also. The movements and 
 actions of a character are as essential as dialect, 
 but are more general and will often determine the 
 most important part of the dialect, namely, the 
 pecuhar melody. When a character is truly as- 
 similated by instinct, if there is no mechanical 
 imitation, the dialect becomes almost an uncon- 
 scious revelation. 
 
 The study of dialect is very close to the subject 
 of dramatic diction. Many of our modern poets 
 who use the monologue, such as Day, Foss, Riley, 
 and Drummond, are blamed by superficial critics 
 for the roughness of their language. Fastidious 
 critics often say the work of these authors is too 
 rough, and "not poetry." 
 
 In reply to such criticism it may be said that the 
 peculiar nature of dramatic diction is not realized. 
 This rough language is necessary because of the 
 peculiar type of character. The man cannot be 
 revealed without making him speak his own native 
 tongue. Browning is blamed as an artist for using 
 burly and even brutal English, but as Mr. Chester- 
 ton has shown, "this is perfectly appropriate to 
 the theme." An ill-mannered, untrustworthy ego- 
 tist, defending his own sordid doings with his own 
 
230 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 cheap and weather-beaten philosophy, is very 
 likely to express himself best in a language flexible 
 and pungent, but indelicate and without dignity. 
 But the peculiarity of these loose and almost slangy 
 soliloquies is that every now and then in them 
 occur bursts of pure poetry which are like the sud- 
 den song of birds. Flashes of poetry at unexpected 
 moments are natural to all men. High ideals, as- 
 pirations, and even exalted visions belong to every 
 one. Poetry is as universal as the human heart, 
 though only a few can give it word. 
 
 The rough language, however, is not antagonis- 
 tic to these poetic visions, but necessary for the 
 truthful presentation of the character; that is to 
 say, dramatic poetry must present both the ex- 
 ternal, objective form and the internal thought and 
 ideal. The very nature of dramatic poetry de- 
 mands such a union. 
 
 This principle must govern all dramatic diction, 
 dialect included, but the law of suggestion and 
 dehcate intimation governs everywhere. 
 
 XIV. PROPERTIES 
 
 A PLAY is a complete dramatic representation. 
 The scenery, dress, and many details are real- 
 istically presented to the eye. All the characters 
 concerned come forth upon the stage literally rep- 
 resented and objectively identified in name, dress, 
 look, and action. Any speaker may take himself 
 bodily out of the scene. There are properties, 
 scenery, and other characters to sustain the move- 
 ment and continuity of the story. Hence, upon 
 the stage, situations and accidents can be repre- 
 
Properties 231 
 
 sented more literally than in the monologue, where 
 much is hinted, or only intimated. In the latter 
 there is but one speaker and the situation is not 
 represented by scenery. It is a mental perform- 
 ance, and everything must be simple. The mono- 
 logue cannot be represented to the eyes as literally 
 as a play ; hence, appeal must not be made to the 
 eyes, but to the mind. 
 
 The interpreter of the monologue, however, too 
 often takes the stage as the standard. There 
 seems to be no well- conceived principle regarding 
 the use of scenery. The ambition is to make every- 
 thing "dramatic," and the result is that mono- 
 logues are often made literal, showy, and theatrical, 
 and presented with inconsistencies which are al- 
 most ridiculous. Many readers arrange a plat- 
 form as a stage with furniture, and dress for their 
 part as if in a play. They show great attention to 
 all sorts of mechanical accidents. They must have 
 a fan or some extraordinary hat which can be taken 
 off and arranged on the stage, and they sometimes 
 go to greatest extremes in sitting, standing, walk- 
 ing, and kneeling, thus crudely violating the prin- 
 ciples of unity, without which there is no art. 
 
 The first principle which must govern the use of 
 scenery on the stage, and especially of properties 
 by the interpreter of a monologue, is significance. 
 Nothing must be used that is not positively and 
 necessarily expressive of the thought and spirit of 
 the passage rendered. When Duse once looked 
 at the stage before the curtain rose, she found a 
 statue in the supposed room. This was not un- 
 natural, and seemed to the stage-manager all right, 
 as it made the place look more home-like ; but she 
 said the statue must go out at once, as it was not a 
 
232 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 subject that would interest the character depicted. 
 He would never have such a statue in his room. 
 So out went the statue. And Duse was right. 
 
 In general, in our day, on the stage as well as on 
 the platform, there is a tendency to use too many 
 properties, too many accidentals, or merely decora- 
 tive details. Things should not be put on a plat- 
 form or stage because they are beautiful, but 
 because they have significance. Even an artistic 
 dress is governed by the same principle. What- 
 ever is not expressive of the personality, whatever 
 does not become a part of the whole person, is a 
 blemish and should be at once eliminated. In 
 most instances, vulgarity consists in the use of too 
 many things. As one word well chosen is more 
 expressive than a dozen carelessly selected, so the 
 highest type of monologue demands the greatest 
 simplicity in its rendering. 
 
 It must be borne in mind that the aim of all vocal 
 expression is to win attention. Many objects 
 which at first seem to attract attention will be 
 found really to distract the auditor's mind. Let 
 the reader try the experiment of omitting them, and 
 he will discover the advantage of few properties. 
 
 The painter must have the power of generalizing, 
 of putting objects into the background and en- 
 veloping all in what is sometimes called "tone." 
 All objects should be dominated by the same spirit, 
 and must, therefore, be made akin to each other 
 and brought into unity. On the stage the lights 
 are often so arranged as to throw objects into 
 shadow; yet this can hardly equal the painter's 
 art of subordination. The interpreter of a mono- 
 logue, however, has no such assistance. He must 
 subordinate, accordingly, by elimination, by the 
 
Properties 233 
 
 greatest simplicity in accessories, and by accentuat- 
 ing central ideas or points. 
 
 It is well known that during the greatest periods 
 of dramatic art, such as the age of Shakespeare, the 
 stage was kept extremely simple, and this is the 
 case also in the best French and German drama of 
 the present time. 
 
 The fundamental law governing not only all 
 dramatic art, and the monologue and platform, but 
 pictures and other forms of art, is unity. Sim- 
 plicity does not elaborate details or properties or 
 gorgeous scenery. It is the result of the subordina- 
 tion of means to one end. Every part of the stage 
 must be an integral portion and express the spirit of 
 the scene. Modern electric hghts and apphances are 
 such that a scene can be brought into unity by effects 
 of light in a way that was not possible until recent 
 years. Power to bring gorgeous scenery into unity 
 has been shown especially by Sir Henry Irving. 
 
 In general, in proportion as a play becomes 
 spectacular, and the stage is made a means of ex- 
 hibiting splendid scenery for its own sake, there is 
 absence of the dramatic spirit. 
 
 The same is true regarding properties. A man 
 may use his cane until it becomes imbued with his 
 own personality, and he can extend the sense of 
 feehng to its farthest tip, as the blind man uses a 
 stick to feel his way through the streets of a city. 
 
 Hence, whenever any article of dress is a neces- 
 sary part of the character and has an inherent re- 
 lation to the story or the thought, when it becomes 
 an essential part of the expression, then it may be 
 properly employed. 
 
 Coquelin, for example, in one of his monologues, 
 comes out with a hat in his hand, but the name of 
 
234 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 the monologue is "The Hat." It is to the hat that 
 his good fortune is due. He treats it with great 
 affection and tenderness, and it becomes in his 
 hand an agency for gesticulation as well as an ob- 
 ject of attention. It can be managed with great 
 flexibility and freedom and in no way interferes 
 with, but rather aids, the subtle, humorous transi- 
 tions in thought and feehng that occur all through 
 the monologue. 
 
 The temptation to most interpreters, however, 
 is to drag in something which should play the most 
 accidental role possible and make it a centre of 
 interest. This destroys expression. 
 
 To illustrate : In a popular monologue a lady is 
 supposed to discover under the edge of a curtain 
 a pair of boots which she takes for evidence that a 
 man is standing behind the curtain in concealment. 
 Now, if literal boots are arranged on the stage be- 
 hind a curtain, they have a totally different effect 
 from Coquelin's hat. They are there all the time. 
 The audience sees them. They cannot move or be 
 used in any way except indirectly. Besides, the 
 woman should discover the boots, and the audience 
 is supposed to discover them with her. A literal 
 pair of boots, therefore, will interfere with the im- 
 agination and an imaginary one is far more easily 
 managed. 
 
 It is diflficult, however, to lay down a universal 
 principle, as much depends upon the artist, the 
 situation, and the circumstances, but in general 
 the chief mistake is in having too many things and 
 in being too literal. The monologue, it must never 
 be forgotten, depends more upon suggestion than 
 the play, and the law of suggestion must always be 
 obeved. 
 
Properties 235 
 
 The monologue, or its interpretation, is simply a 
 mode of expression, and the employment of all acces- 
 sories and properties must, first of all, be such as will 
 not destroy expression, but rather increase the inten- 
 sity and enforce the central spirit of the thought. 
 
 A second principle might be named the law of 
 centrality. The artist must carefully distinguish 
 between the accidental and the essential, and be 
 sure to remember that art is the emphasis of the 
 essential; that emphasis is the manifestation of 
 what is of fundamental importance and the sub- 
 ordination of what is of secondary value. Careless 
 and inartistic minds always find the accidental 
 first; the accidental is to them always more inter- 
 esting. But when an accidental is made an essen- 
 tial, the result is a one-sided effect; and while a 
 temporary impression may be produced upon an 
 audience, it is never permanently valuable. The 
 reader who emphasizes accidents will himself grow 
 weary of his monologue in a short time and not 
 know the reason. Only a thing of beauty is a joy 
 forever. Only that which is natural and in ac- 
 cordance with the laws of nature will stand forever 
 as an object of interest. 
 
 A third law is consistency. As the oak-leaf is 
 consistent with the whole tree, so in art, the degree 
 of literalness in one direction must be justified by 
 a corresponding degree in another. If Mrs. Caudle 
 is to have a night- cap, then an old-fashioned cur- 
 tain bed, a stuffed image for Caudle, and a phono- 
 graph for his snore are equally requisite. The 
 temptation to be hteral would hardly lead a mono- 
 logue interpreter to place Cahban in the position 
 Browning suggests in the poem, since it is im- 
 practicable to have a pool on the stage and let 
 
236 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Caliban lie in the cool slush. In the very nature 
 of the case, accessories are suggestive, and the de- 
 gree of suggestion in one direction must determine 
 the degree in others. 
 
 These three suggestive principles of unity, cen- 
 trality, and consistency show that what may be 
 done on the stage should not be a standard for the 
 interpretation of a monologue. 
 
 In the very nature of the case, the interpreter of 
 the monologue cannot have all the means of pro- 
 ducing an optical illusion which are available on 
 the stage. His illusion must be mental and imagi- 
 native. Circumstances, however, change, though 
 the laws will be found to apply. 
 
 Because the speaker is supposed to be sitting in 
 a grocery store on a barrel, it is not necessary for 
 the reader to sit upon a table and swing his feet. 
 We are not interested in the barrel, but in the one 
 who sits upon it, and he would be as interesting if 
 sitting upon something else, or even standing. The 
 fundamental centre of interest in all expression is 
 the mind, and whatever cannot reinforce that is not 
 only useless, but a hindrance. 
 
 The old age of Rabbi Ben Ezra is purely ac- 
 cidental. To present him as weak and enfeebled 
 would destroy for us the vigorous mind, and strong 
 convictions of the old man. 
 
 One of the precious memories of my youth, the 
 most adequate rendering of a monologue I ever 
 heard, was Charlotte Cushman's reading of Ten- 
 nyson's "The Grandmother." Sitting quietly in 
 her chair, as she did in nearly all of her readings, 
 she suggested the mind of the grandmother whose 
 girlhood memories, "seventy years ago, my dar- 
 Hng, seventy years ago," were accentuated by the 
 
Properties 237 
 
 trembling head and hands and voice. All the 
 mental attitudes so well portrayed by Tennyson — 
 the lapses into forgetfulness ; the tenderness of the 
 experience ; the patience born of old age ; — were 
 faithfully depicted. It was something which those 
 who heard could never forget. The greatness of 
 Charlotte Cushman's art was shown in the fact that 
 she could give an extremely simple monologue with 
 marvellous consistency and force. It is strange that 
 among American dramatic artists no one has tried 
 to follow in her steps. I can laugh yet when I re- 
 member her transcendent interpretation of "The 
 Annuity," a monologue in Scottish character and 
 dialect. I owe a great debt to Miss Cushman, for 
 she awakened my interest in the monologue, and 
 gave me, over thirty years ago, an ideal concep- 
 tion of the possibihties of dramatic platform art. 
 She never used properties of any kind. At times 
 she stood up and walked the platform and acted a 
 scene from Macbeth or some other play, but al- 
 ways with the simplest possible interpretation, 
 without any mechanical accessories. She never 
 stood in giving her monologues, or readings, which 
 she gave the last year of her life. 
 
 Care, of course, is needed in regard to the em- 
 ployment of properties also on the stage. The diffi- 
 culty of placing a horse upon the stage is well 
 known. He cannot be made a part of the picture, 
 cannot be subordinated, or "made up." If we 
 observe from the gallery when a horse is on the 
 stage, we find that the attention of everybody is 
 centred upon him, and the point of the play is lost. 
 Who ever receives an impression of the splendid 
 music while Brunhilde stands holding by the bridle 
 a great cart-horse ? 
 
238 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 The centre of interest in Goldsmith's " She 
 Stoops to Conquer " is not in the horse that Tony 
 Lumpkin has been driving, but in his dialogue with 
 his mother, and her fright at her husband, whom she 
 believes to be a highwayman. To introduce two 
 horses, making the audience uneasy as to what they 
 will do, destroys the dramatic interest of the scene. 
 
 The bringing of real horses on the stage in a 
 play always causes fear of an accident and dis- 
 tracts attention from the real point of the scene. 
 To see a noted singer motioning to a super to bring 
 her horse on the stage makes " the judicious grieve." 
 There is no doubt a tendency at the present time to 
 over-elaboration and to extravagance in reahstic 
 presentation. But if too much literalism is objec- 
 tionable in the play, how much more is it in the 
 monologue ? 
 
 All these principles may be combined in one, the 
 law of harmony. This is possibly the simplest law 
 regarding properties, dialect, and all accidentals in 
 the interpretation of a monologue. The degree of 
 realism in one direction or in one part must be 
 justified by corresponding degrees in others. All 
 art is relative, and depends upon the unity of 
 impression. 
 
 A man's clothes may be a part of his character, 
 and a singular individual often has an odd hat, or 
 cane, that has become an essential means in the 
 expression of his character. Where a man uses a 
 stick habitually in an individual way, the dramatic 
 artist may use this to a certain extent, especially in 
 monologues of a lower type. So of any article of 
 dress ; when an essential part of a character is 
 needed for expression, it is proper to use it. The 
 same principle apphes here that was shown in the 
 
Properties 239 
 
 case of dialect. Though accidental, an article of 
 dress may become a means of expression. In the 
 higher and more exalted monologues, however, 
 there should be more suggestion and less hteral 
 presentation of properties or adjuncts. The sub- 
 limer the hterature, the more appeal is made to the 
 imagination ; the deeper the feehng, the more com- 
 plete is the dependence upon the imagination of 
 the audience. The more lyrical also, a monologue, 
 the less must there be of any accidental repre- 
 sentation. This is sure to destroy the lyric spirit. 
 Even when there is not a lyric element the dramatic 
 element is only suggested, and in the sublimest mon- 
 ologues often verges towards the epic. The mono- 
 logue is rarely purely dramatic, that is, dramatic in 
 a sense peculiar to the theatre. 
 
 The application of these principles to the inter- 
 pretation of a monologue is clear. Nothing in 
 the way of properties should ever be employed in 
 the presentation of a monologue which is not abso- 
 lutely necessary. There should be nothing on the 
 platform which does not directly aid in interpret- 
 ing the passage. All which does not co-operate in 
 producing the illusion will be a hindrance. When- 
 ever attention is called to a hteral object, or even to 
 a mere objective fact, attention is distracted from 
 the central theme. 
 
 All properties appeal to the eye, and it requires a 
 careful management of light and a study of the 
 stage picture to bring them into unity with the 
 scene. But the reader of the monologue can have 
 no such advantages. If unity in the literal repre- 
 sentation of the stage is necessary, and cannot be 
 won without great subordination, how much more 
 is this needful in the presentation of a monologue. 
 
240 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 where the appeal is to the mind, and people are 
 supposed to use not their eye, but their imagina- 
 tion, and even to supply a listener. The laws of 
 consistency and suggestion, accordingly, require the 
 elimination or very careful subordination of prop- 
 erties and scenery in the presentation of the mono- 
 logue. \Yhenever one thing is carried beyond the 
 limit of suggestiveness or the degree of realistic 
 representation possible in all directions, the effect 
 is one-sided. The necessity of subordinating prop- 
 erties and make-up in the monologue is shown by 
 the fact that they are more permissible in those of 
 a very low type or in the burlesque or the farce. 
 
 Dramatic elements and actions need to be em- 
 phasized by the interpreter of a monologue. The 
 actor can "take the stage" or give it up to another, 
 but this is impossible in a monologue. The in- 
 terpreter on a platform has no one to hold the 
 stage while he falls. He can only suggest all the 
 actions and relations of character to character. 
 He cannot make the same number of movements, 
 or turn so far around or walk so great a distance, or 
 make such a literal portrayal of objects as is pos- 
 sible on a stage. The monologue must centre ex- 
 pression in the face, eyes, and action, and in the 
 pictures awakened in the minds of the hearers, not 
 in mere accidents or properties. 
 
 I have seen a prominent reader bend over at 
 the hip and lean on a cane, so that his face could 
 not be seen by the audience, and people were ex- 
 pected to accept this monstrosity as an old man. 
 One among twenty thousand old men might be 
 bent over in this way, but then he could never talk 
 as this reader talked. Certainly such action was 
 foreign to the intention of his author and the spirit 
 
Faults in Rendering a Monologue 241 
 
 of his selection, as well as to the spirit of art. Face 
 and body must be seen in order to fully understand 
 language, and no accidental must be so exaggerated 
 as to interfere with a definite, artistic accentuation 
 of that which is necessary to the meaning and ex- 
 pressive presentation of the whole. In general, let 
 the reader beware of accidentals, and in every case, 
 as much as possible, emphasize the fundamentals. 
 
 XV. FAULTS IN RENDERING A MONOLOGUE 
 
 Many faults in the rendering of a monologue have 
 been necessarily suggested in the preceding dis- 
 cussion. There are some, however, which have 
 been but barely referred to, that possibly need some 
 further attention. 
 
 The monologue must not be stagy. It should 
 possess the quiet simphcity, the long pauses, the 
 abrupt movement, the animated changes in pitch, 
 and the simple intensity which belong to conversa- 
 tion. The Italian in England would remember and 
 feel again the excitement of danger, and gratitude 
 for delivery ; but he would not employ descriptive 
 gestures and declamatory presentation as if deliver- 
 ing an oration. 
 
 An important error to be avoided in rendering a 
 monologue is monotony or inflexibility. A mono- 
 logue is more suggestive than any other form of 
 literature, for it implies sudden exclamations and 
 abrupt transitions. The ideas and feelings are 
 often hardly hinted at by the writer. There is 
 not only greater difiiculty in realizing the continuity 
 of ideas and meaning, but a greater necessity for 
 
242 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 abrupt changes of voice than in any other mode of 
 expression. 
 
 The reader of the monologue must suggest the 
 impressions produced upon him, the hidden causes, 
 the unreported words of another character, and at 
 the same time a distinct and definite imaginative 
 situation. Hence, the rendering of a monologue 
 requires the greatest possible accentuation of the 
 processes of thinking and feeling and the most 
 delicate transitions of ideas. An impression pro- 
 duced by a mere look must be definitely revealed 
 by the interpreter. 
 
 We thus see the necessity for the employment of 
 great flexibility of voice and of body, and especially 
 the exercise of versatility of the mind. The inter- 
 preter must have a sympathetic temperament, and 
 must be able to accentuate and sustain the sim- 
 plest look, the most delicate inflection and change 
 of pitch, and to modulate the color and movement 
 of his voice with perfect freedom. To read a mono- 
 logue on one pitch completely perverts its spirit. 
 Monotony is a bad fault in rendering all forms of 
 literature, but it is possibly worse in the monologue 
 on account of the peculiarly broken and suggestive 
 character of that form of writing. 
 
 All the elements of conversation must be not 
 only realized, but emphasized. The reader must 
 be able to make some of these so salient as to reveal 
 the very first initiation of an idea; otherwise, the 
 real point may be lost. The thought must be made 
 clear at all hazards. 
 
 The monologue must not be tame. Because it 
 is printed in such regular lines the suggestive char- 
 acter may be lost, and the words simply presented 
 as in a story or essay. There is a great temptation. 
 
Faults in Rendering a Monologue 243 
 
 to give the feeling with the personal directness of the 
 lyric story or essay. The monologue requires ex- 
 treme definiteness and decision in the conception 
 of character and feehng, and every point must be 
 made sahent. 
 
 Another fault in the rendering of the monologue 
 is a declamatory tendency. As the reader dis- 
 covers but one speaker he confuses the words with 
 a speech. He feels the presence of the audience to 
 whom he is addressing the words, or unconsciously 
 imagines an audience, in preparing his monologue, 
 and forgets entirely the dramatic auditor intended 
 by the author. Thus, the interpreter, confusing 
 the points of situation, transforms the monologue 
 into a stump speech. 
 
 It degrades the quiet intensity of "A Gramma- 
 rian's Funeral" to make the grammarian's pupil, 
 who is aiding in bearing his body up the mountain 
 side, declaim against the world. How quietly in- 
 tense and simple should be the rendering of "By 
 the Fireside." 
 
 Although the subtleties of conversation need 
 some accentuation, and although there is an en- 
 largement of the processes of thinking, and fuller 
 realization of the truth than in conversation, the 
 monologue never becomes a speech. An audience 
 may be felt, but never directly dominated, nor 
 even addressed. In the oration, the speaker directly 
 dominates the audience; in dramatic representa- 
 tion, the artist does not even look at his audience. 
 His eye belongs to his interlocutor. The direction 
 of the audience is that of attraction, and away from 
 the audience that of negation. He must feel a tend- 
 ency to gravitate in passion towards the audience, 
 and in the negation of passion to turn from them ; 
 
244 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 but still he succeeds, not by direct instruction, but 
 by fidelity of portraiture. 
 
 The monologue is as indirect as a play. It is the 
 revelation of a soul, and to be used not to persuade, 
 but to influence subtly. The truth is portrayed with 
 living force, and the auditor left to draw his own 
 conclusions and lessons. 
 
 Another fault is indefiniteness. Every part of a 
 monologue must be brought into harmony with the 
 rest. Part must be consistent with part, as are the 
 hand and foot belonging to the same organism. If 
 ** Abt Vogler" be started as a soliloquy, it must not 
 be turned into a speech to an audience, nor even 
 into a direct speech to one individual. If conceived 
 as a speech to one individual, that character must 
 be preserved throughout. Even though talldng to 
 some one, he would be very meditative, and would 
 often turn and speak as if to himself. 
 
 Closely allied to indefiniteness is exaggeration of 
 certain parts. All accentuation must be in direct 
 proportion. If inflection be made longer and more 
 salient, there must also be longer pauses, greater 
 changes of pitch, and greater variations of move- 
 ment and color. In the enlargement of a portrait, 
 it is necessary that all parts be enlarged in propor- 
 tion. If only the nose or the upper lip be enlarged, 
 the truth of the portrait is lost. 
 
 But on account of the suggestive character of the 
 monologue, essentials only must be expanded and 
 accentuated. Hardly any form of art demands that 
 accidentals be more completely subordinated. To 
 exaggerate accidents is to produce extravagance; 
 to appeal to a lower sense is to violate the artistic 
 law of unity. Naturalness can be preserved in any 
 artistic accentuation by increased emphasis of es- 
 
Faults in Rendering a Monologue 245 
 
 sentials. This prevents the monologue from being 
 tame on the one hand, and extravagant on the 
 other. 
 
 Failures in the ordinary rendering of a mono- 
 logue are frequently occasioned by lack of imag- 
 ination. The scene, situation, and relation of the 
 characters do not seem to be clearly or vividly 
 realized. Hence, there is a lack of passion, of 
 emotional realization of a living scene, and conse- 
 quently of natural modulations of voice and body. 
 The audience depends entirely upon the inter- 
 preter, since there is no scenery to suggest the situa- 
 tion. All centres in the mind of the reader. If he 
 does not see, and does not show the impression of 
 his vision, his auditor cannot be expected to realize 
 anything. 
 
 At first thought, it seems impossible for a reader 
 to cause an audience to discover a complicated situ- 
 ation from a look. The reader may think it neces- 
 sary to make a long explanation first and be 
 tempted to depend upon objects around him. It 
 is presently found, however, that a mere hint, a turn 
 of the head, a passing expression of the face, will 
 kindle the imagination of the auditor. If the reader 
 really sees things himself, and is natural, flexible, 
 and forcible, he need not fear that his audience will 
 not imagine the scene. An illusion is easily pro- 
 duced. Imagination kindles imagination; vision 
 evokes vision. Every picture, every situation, the 
 location of every character, the entrance of every 
 idea, must be naturally revealed, and there is no 
 need for extravagance of labor. Whatever turns 
 the attention of the audience to the labor of the 
 reader will prevent imaginative creation of the 
 scene, while all minds will be concentrated on 
 
246 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 the thought when there is a natural, easy manifes- 
 tation of a simple impression. 
 
 The reader in rendering a monologue has es- 
 pecial need for dramatic imagination, and must 
 have insight into the motives of character. The 
 character he portrays must think and live, and the 
 character to whom he is supposed to speak must 
 also be realized. He must sympathetically identify 
 himself with every point of view. A lack of dra- 
 matic instinct upon the stage may at times be con- 
 cealed by a show of scenery and properties, but 
 without dramatic instinct the rendering of a mono- 
 logue is impossible. It is the dramatic imagination 
 that enables a reader to feel the implied relations, 
 to awaken to a consciousness of a situation, or of 
 the meaning and intimation of the impression pro- 
 duced by another character. 
 
 Lack of clearness must be corrected by unusual 
 emphasis. In fact, the monologue demands what 
 may be called dramatic emphasis. Not only must 
 words that stand for central ideas be made saHent, 
 but so also must be the impressions of ideas or of 
 situations that need special attention. These give 
 to the audience the situation and life. It is the 
 dramatic ellipses that need especially to be re- 
 vealed in order to make a monologue clear as well 
 as forcible. A monologue demands the direct ac- 
 tion of the dramatic instinct. 
 
 All dramatic art must Hve and move. There is al- 
 ways something of a struggle implied, and this must 
 be suggested and represented. The whole interest 
 of dramatic art centres in the effect of one human 
 being upon another. Without dramatic reahzation 
 of the effect of character upon character, genuine 
 interpretation of a monologue is not possible. 
 
Faults in Rendering a Monologue 247 
 
 The monologue must never be theatrical or spec- 
 tacular. If the interpreter exaggerates at the first 
 some situation, however great or important, beyond 
 the bounds of living, moving, natural life, the re- 
 sult becomes mere posing. An attitude that might 
 have been a simple and clear revelation of feeling 
 is altogether exaggerated, and appeals to the eye 
 instead of to the imagination. It is the result, per- 
 haps, of an expert mechanic, but not of dramatic 
 instinct. If there is a locating of everything, hter- 
 alism is substituted for imaginative suggestiveness. 
 An extravagant earnestness, or loudness, or un- 
 natural stilted methods of emphasis, will entirely 
 prevent the reader's imaginative and dramatic 
 action in identifying himself with the character, or 
 entering into sympathetic relations with the scene. 
 A monologue mu^t always be perfectly true to life, 
 and as simple and natural as every -day movements 
 upon the street. 
 
 The interpreter of a monologue must study 
 nature ; must train his voice and body to the great- 
 est degree of flexible responsiveness, and become 
 acquainted with the human heart. He must culti- 
 vate a sympathetic appreciation of all forms of 
 literature; must understand the subtle influences 
 of one human being over another, and comprehend 
 that only by delicate suggestion of the simplest 
 truth can the imagination and sympathies be 
 awakened. He must have confidence in his fellow- 
 men, and be able, by a simple hint, to awaken 
 men's ideals. In short, faults in rendering mono- 
 logues must be prevented by genuineness, by de- 
 veloping taste, and awakening the imagination, 
 dramatic instinct, and artistic nature. 
 
248 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 XVI. IMPORTANCE OF THE MONOLOGUE 
 
 When we have once discovered the nature and 
 peculiarities of the monologue, the character of its 
 interpretation, and its uses in dramatic expression, 
 its general importance in art, literature, and educa- 
 tion becomes apparent. 
 
 In the first place, its value is shown by the fact 
 that it reveals phases of human nature not other- 
 wise expressed in literature, or in any other form 
 of art. 
 
 To illustrate this, let us take Browning's "Saul." 
 It is founded upon a very slight story in the Book 
 of Kings to the effect that when Saul was afflicted 
 with an evil spirit, a skilful musician was sought to 
 charm away the demon, and the youthful David 
 was chosen. 
 
 Browning takes this theme, transfigures it by his 
 imagination, and produces what is considered by 
 some the greatest poem of the nineteenth century. 
 Without necessarily subscribing to this judgment, 
 let us study this poem which has called forth from 
 some critics so much enthusiasm. 
 
 Browning makes David the speaker in the mono- 
 logue, and its occasion after the event, when he is 
 "alone" with his sheep, endeavoring to reahze 
 what happened while playing before Saul, and 
 what it meant. 
 
 The poem begins with his arrival at the Israel- 
 itish camp, and Abner's kindly reception and indi- 
 cation to him of his duty. Browning isolates Saul 
 in his tent, which no one dares approach. This 
 stripling with his harp must, therefore, go into that 
 tent alone. After kneeling and praying, he "runs 
 
Importance of the Monologue 249 
 
 over the sand burned to powder," and at the en- 
 trance to the tent again prays. Then he is "not 
 afraid," but enters, calHng out, "Here is David." 
 Presently he sees "something more black than the 
 blackness," arms on the cross -supports (note the 
 cross). Now what can David, a youth, before 
 the king, sing or say or do ? 
 
 He first plays "the tune all our sheep know," 
 that is, he starts, as endeavor should ever start, 
 upon the memory of some early victory. Possibly 
 his first victory was the training of the sheep to 
 obey his music. The winning of one victory gives 
 courage for another. It is practically the only 
 courage a human being can get. Hence, David 
 tries the same song. He is not ashamed to trust his 
 childhood's experiences. Then follows the tune by 
 which he had charmed the "quails," the "crickets," 
 and the "quick jerboa." Later experiences suc- 
 ceed, the tune of the "reapers," the "wine-song," 
 the praise of the "dead man." Then follows 
 
 *'. . . the glad chant 
 Of the marriage. ..." 
 
 and 
 
 **. . . the chorus intoned 
 As the Levites go up to the altar." 
 
 Here he stops and receives his first response. 
 "In the darkness Saul groaned." Then David 
 pours forth the song of the perfection of the phys- 
 ical manhood of which Saul was the type. 
 
 *' ' Oh, our manhood's prime vigour ! No spirit feels waste. 
 Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. 
 Oh, the wild joys of living ! the leaping from rock up to rock,' " 
 
 and calls him by name, "King Saul." Then he 
 waits what may follow, as one at the climax of 
 
250 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 human endeavor pauses to see what has been ac- 
 compHshed. After a long shudder, the king's self 
 was left 
 
 "... standing before me, released and aware." 
 
 what more could he do ? 
 
 *' (For, awhile there was trouble within me.)'* 
 
 Then he turns to the dreams he had had in the 
 field. He has gone the rounds of his experience 
 and done his best to interpret them. Now he passes 
 into a higher realm. He describes the great future, 
 and all the different causes working to perpetuate 
 Saul's fame. 
 
 " 'So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part 
 In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou 
 art!'" 
 
 As he closes, the harp falling forward, he becomes 
 aware 
 
 "That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees 
 Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which 
 
 please 
 To encircle a lamb when it slumbers." 
 
 Then Saul lifted up his hand from his side and 
 laid it 
 
 *'in mild settled will, on my brow: thro' my hair 
 The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind 
 
 power — 
 All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower." 
 
 and David peered into the eyes of the king — 
 
 *' ' And oh, all my heart how it loved him ! but where was the sign ? ' " 
 
 His intense love and longing lifts David into a 
 state of exaltation. 
 
 "Then the truth came upon me. No harp more — no song more! 
 outbroke — " 
 
Importance of the Monologue 251 
 
 The instrument drops to his side, for inspiration 
 at its highest is expressed by the simplest means. 
 With a heart thrilled by love of this fellow- being, 
 out of that human love David comes to realize 
 something of the divine love, and he breaks into 
 the finest strain of nineteenth century poetry. In 
 noble anapestic lines he pours forth the thought as 
 it comes to him : 
 
 "'Behold, I could love if I durst! 
 But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake 
 God's own speed in the one way of love : I abstain for love's sake. 
 What, my soul ? see thus far and no farther ? when doors great and 
 
 small, 
 Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal ? 
 In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all ? 
 (Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift. 
 That I doubt his own love can compete with it ? Here, the parts 
 
 shift ? 
 Here, the creature surpass the Creator, — the end, what Began ?. . . 
 Would I suffer for him that I love ? So wouldst thou — so wilt 
 
 thou ! ' " 
 
 This poem of Browning's is conceived in the 
 loftiest spirit of religious verse. David foretelling 
 the Christ as the manifestation of divine love, and 
 the authentication of the fact of immortality, 
 reaches the true spirit of all prophecy, a theme 
 almost transcending poetry. Then follow a few 
 words of David's, descriptive of the effect of the new 
 law which he has discovered upon the world around 
 him on his way home. Illumination has come to 
 him, the world is transfigured by love ; and this sub- 
 hme poem closes with the murmur of the brooks. 
 
 What does it all mean .^ One person makes it 
 the text of a long discussion on the use of music 
 to cure disease. Another thinks it a suggestion in 
 poetry of the spirit of Hebrew prophecy. There 
 is no end to its applications. It is a parable. Is it 
 
252 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 not the poetic interpretation of all noble endeavor ? 
 May not David represent any human being facing 
 some great undertaking ? Is not the gloomy tent 
 the world, and Saul outstretched in the form of a 
 cross the race, and David with his harp any trem- 
 bling soul who attempts to charm away the demon 
 from his fellow- men ? Is it too much to say that 
 every successful artist follows David's example as 
 portrayed by Browning ? The artist will also 
 share in David's experience in the transformation 
 of the world. 
 
 Without the monologue could such a marvellous 
 interpretation be possible ? how could we receive 
 such suggestions, such glimpses into man's spiritual 
 nature ? What other form of art could serve as an 
 objective means of expressing those experiences ? 
 The evolution of the monologue has made "Saul" 
 possible. 
 
 There has been much discussion whether the 
 book of Job is a dramatic or an epic poem. It con- 
 tains both elements, but if we study the singular 
 character of the many speeches, we can see that the 
 real spirit of the poem is explained by the principles 
 of the dramatic monologue. It is a series of mono- 
 logues by different speakers, each character being 
 separately defined, and his words and ideas defi- 
 nitely colored by his character, as in "The Ring 
 and the Book." 
 
 The ninetieth Psalm is a monologue. Whoever 
 the author may have been, he conceived of Moses 
 as the speaker. The experience is not that of man- 
 kind in general. A peculiar situation and type of 
 character are demanded. No other man in history 
 can utter so fittingly the words of the Psalm as can 
 Moses. 
 
Importance of the Monologue 253 
 
 "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. 
 Before the mountains were brought forth, 
 Or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, 
 Even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God. 
 
 Thou turnest man to destruction, 
 
 And sayest, Return, ye children of men. 
 For a thousand years in thy sight 
 Are but as yesterday when it is past. 
 And as a watch in the night. 
 
 Thou carriest them away as with a flood; 
 
 They are as a sleep: 
 In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; 
 In the evening it is cut down, and withereth. 
 
 For we are consumed in thine anger. 
 
 And in thy wrath are we troubled. 
 
 Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, 
 Our secret sins in the light of thy countenance. 
 For all our days are passed away in thy wrath: 
 We bring our years to an end as a sigh. 
 The days of our years are threescore and ten, 
 Or even by reason of strength fourscore years; 
 Yet is their pride but labor and sorrow; 
 
 For it is soon gone, and we fly away. 
 
 Who knoweth the power of thine anger. 
 And thy wrath according to the fear that is due unto thee ? 
 So teach us to number our days, * 
 
 That we may get us a heart of wisdom. 
 Return, O Jehovah; how long? 
 And let it repent thee concerning thy servants. 
 Oh satisfy us in the morning with thy lovingkindness. 
 That we may rejoice and be glad all our days. 
 Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, 
 And the years wherein we have seen evil. 
 Let thy work appear unto thy servants. 
 And thy glory upon their children. 
 And let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us; 
 And establish thou the work of our hands upon us; 
 Yea, the work of our hands establish thou it. 
 
 The very first words hint at his experiences. He 
 never had a home ; how natural, therefore, for him 
 to say, "Lord, Thou hast been our dweUing-place 
 
254 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 in all generations." Cradled on the Nile, brought 
 up by Pharaoh's daughter, Jethro's shepherd for 
 forty years, and for another forty a wanderer in the 
 wilderness and the leader of his people, surely he 
 was rich in tried knowledge ! 
 
 Notice how these conditions save the Psalm from 
 untruthfulness. "All our days are passed away in 
 thy wrath: we spend our years as a sigh." Such 
 statements are true of Moses and the people 
 condemned to die in the desert, Joshua and 
 Caleb only being permitted to pass over the Jordan. 
 Moses in his grief at the divine judgment could 
 say this truthfully to God, but to giye these words 
 a universal application would falsify a Christian's 
 faith and hope. They are dramatic rather than 
 lyric. 
 
 The Psalm should be read as a monologue, the 
 character should be sustained ; the feeling and ex- 
 perience, not of every one, but of Moses in particu- 
 lar, should be felt and truly interpreted. 
 
 What hght the study of the monologue throws 
 upon the pecuhar oratory of the Hebrew prophets ! 
 These are speeches, sermons with fragmentary 
 interruptions. Note, for example, in the twenty- 
 eighth chapter of Isaiah, a speech to the drunkards 
 of Jerusalem. The speaker is referring as a warn- 
 ing to the drunkards of Samaria, the northern city 
 being intimated by the figure of the " crown — on 
 the head of the fat valley." But in verses nine and 
 ten the drunkards retort, and their words have to 
 be read as quotations, as the expression of their 
 feelings. The speeches of the prophets, of course, 
 are not regular forms of the monologue; but a 
 study of the monologue enables us to recognize 
 their dramatic character, and greatly aids in dis- 
 
Importance of the Monologue 255 
 
 covering the meaning of these subhme poems or 
 addresses. 
 
 The monologue is capable of rendering special 
 service to many classes of men. It has an impor- 
 tant, but overlooked, educational value. It can 
 render, for example, great assistance in the training 
 of a speaker. The chief dangers of the speaker 
 are unnaturalness, declamation, extravagance, and 
 crude methods of emphasis, such especially as over- 
 emphasis. He inclines to employ physical force 
 rather than mental energy, to give a show of earnest- 
 ness rather than to suggest intensity of thought and 
 feeling. 
 
 The monologue furnishes the speaker with a 
 simple method of studying naturalness. If set to 
 master a monologue, he must observe conversa- 
 tion, and be able to express thoughts saliently and 
 earnestly to one person. 
 
 Although no true speaker can ever afford to 
 neglect the study of Shakespeare and the great 
 dramatists, still the monologue affords a great 
 variety of dramatic situations, and especially in- 
 terprets dramatic points of view. It will also help 
 him to gain a knowledge of character and fur- 
 nish a simple method of developing his own nat- 
 uralness. 
 
 An orator presents truth directly, for its own 
 sake, and hence is apt to overlook the fact that 
 oratory, after all, is "the presentation of truth by 
 personality," and that personal pecuharities will 
 interfere with such presentation. A study of the 
 monologue will reveal him to himself, and help him 
 to understand something of the necessity of making 
 truth clear to another personahty. By studying 
 dramatic art, the speaker, in short, not only comes 
 
256 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 to a knowledge of human nature, and the relation 
 of human beings to each other, but is furnished 
 with the means of understanding himself. 
 
 Another important service which the monologue 
 is capable of rendering is the awakening of a per- 
 ception of the necessary connection between the 
 hving voice and literature. The Greeks recognized 
 this, but in modern times we have almost lost the 
 function of the spoken word in education, in our 
 over- emphasis of the written word. 
 
 The monologue is capable of furnishing a new 
 course in recitation and speaking, of bringing the 
 most important study of the natural languages into 
 practical relationship with the study of hterature. 
 On the one hand, it elevates the study of the spoken 
 word, and gives a practical course for the colleges 
 and high schools in the rendering of some of the 
 masterpieces of the language ; on the other hand, it 
 prevents the courses in literature from becoming a 
 mere scientific study of words. 
 
 The true study of literature must be subjective. 
 Psychology has tested and tried every study in 
 recent years. Men will soon come to realize that 
 there is a psychology of literature, and centre its 
 study, not in words, but in the living expression of 
 thought and feeling. Written language will then 
 be directly connected with the awakening of the 
 creative faculties of the mind. 
 
 The value of the monologue will then be appre- 
 ciated because of its direct revelation of the action 
 of man's faculties, and it may be realized also that 
 the evolution of the monologue is a part of the pro- 
 gressive spirit of our own time. 
 
 The rendering of the monologue also will aid 
 us in securing a method and emphasize the fact 
 
Importance of the Monologue 257 
 
 that Hterature as art must be studied as art and by 
 means of art. Scientific study of hterature is ab- 
 normal or necessarily one-sided. The study of the 
 monologue when rightly pursued will aid in study- 
 ing literature as the mirror of life and prevent the 
 student from developing contempt for the literary 
 masterpieces which he is made to analyze. 
 
 It will aid in the study of literature as *'the criti- 
 cism of life" and enable the individual student to 
 realize literature as the mirror of human experience. 
 It will prevent students from studying literature as 
 mere words. It will awaken deeper and truer 
 appreciation and will prevent the contempt, born of 
 mechanical drudgery, for literary masterpieces. 
 
 Educated men do not know by heart the noble 
 poetry of the language. The voices of American 
 students are hard and cold. There is among us 
 little appreciation of art. The monologue seems 
 to come as a peculiar blessing at this time as a 
 means of educating the imagination and dramatic 
 instinct. It furnishes a course for recitation that 
 obviates the necessity for a stage, avoids the stilted- 
 ness of declamation, yet supphes an adequate 
 method of studying the lost art of recitation, — the 
 art that made the Greek what he was. 
 
 The monologue will help students in all the arts 
 to overcome tendencies to mechanical practice. 
 There is danger of making all exercises mechanical. 
 Take, for example, the student of song. If he 
 practises scales or songs without thought, or any 
 sense of expressing feeling to others, it is simply a 
 matter of execution. Some of our leading singers 
 express no feeling. Song, to them, is a matter of 
 technical execution, — very beautiful as an exhibi- 
 tion, but not as a revelation of the heart. 
 
 17 
 
258 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 A similar condition is found also in other forms 
 of art, — in instrumental music, in painting or draw- 
 ing. There is a continual tendency to forget that 
 art is the expression of thinking and feeling to 
 another mind ; and while there must be very severe 
 training to master technicalities, this is not the end, 
 but the means. The monologue furnishes a simple 
 and adequate method for the mastery of the rela- 
 tions of one mind to another. It is just as necessary 
 in the development of the artist that he should 
 come to feel the laws of the human mind, the laws 
 of his own thinking and feehng, and the character 
 of the suggestion of that feeling, and to recognize 
 the modifications which the presence of another 
 soul makes upon his own, as it is that he should 
 master the technique of his art. 
 
 All art is social. It is founded on the relation of 
 human beings to each other; on the character of 
 the soul ; on the love of one human being for others, 
 and the desire to reveal to his fellows the impres- 
 sions that nature, or human character, make upon 
 him. In all artistic practice, of song, of instru- 
 mental music, of painting, of drama, there should 
 be in the mind of the artist a perception of the race. 
 
 The monologue is especially helpful to dramatic 
 students. They are too apt to despise the mono- 
 logue, and not appreciate the assistance its mastery 
 could give them. They desire mere rehearsals of 
 plays; they want scenery, properties, accessories, 
 forgetful that the primary elements of dramatic 
 art are found in thought, feeling, and motives and 
 passions. Dramatic art must be based on the rev- 
 elation of the nature of man ; and on the effect of 
 mind upon mind. The monologue enables the 
 dramatic student to study the dramatic element in 
 
Importance of the Monologue 259 
 
 his own mind, as well as in the relations of one 
 character to another. When he has no interlocutor 
 to hsten to or to lead the attention of the audience, 
 or hold it in the appreciation of what he is saying, 
 thinking, and doing, he is thrown back upon his 
 instincts, and must imagine his interlocutor and 
 depend upon himself. 
 
 The monologue, however, is important for its 
 own artistic character. It is primarily important 
 because it belongs to dramatic art. It gives insight 
 into human character, embodies the poetry of every- 
 day life, and reveals the mysteries of the human 
 heart, as possibly no other literary form can do. 
 It focuses attention upon human motives independ- 
 ent of "too much story" or literary digression. It 
 interprets human conduct, thinking, feeling, and 
 passion, from a distinct point of view. It suggests 
 the secret of human follies, misconceptions, and 
 perversities, and gives the key to greatness and 
 nobihty in character. 
 
 Insignificant as the form may seem to one who 
 has never studied it, it is a mirror of human life, 
 and as such can be made a means of criticizing 
 public wrong or folly. It can express a universal 
 feeling, and is one of the finest agents of humor. 
 By its aid Mr. Dooley reflects the weaknesses and 
 foibles of people and parties in such a way as to 
 make a whole nation smile, and even to mould 
 public sentiment. Thus, the amusing and humor- 
 ous monologues must not be despised. Think of 
 the services humor has rendered in the advance of 
 human civilization ! Alas for him who cannot smile 
 at folly, and alas for human art which appeals only 
 to the morbid ! The highest function of human art 
 is to awaken pleasure at the sight of the beautiful, 
 
26o Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 and the true. If a man finds pleasure in what is 
 below his ordinary plane of hfe, he injures himself. 
 If enjoyment leads him in the direction of his ideal, 
 although indirectly, by a portrayal of the comic, 
 the abnormal, or even of low characters, he is bene- 
 fited, no matter how this benefit is received. 
 
 Men delight to teach and to preach, but it is 
 astonishing how little direct teaching and preach- 
 ing accomplish. On account of the hardness of the 
 heart, the parable, or some other less direct method 
 of teaching, some artistic method, that is, is abso- 
 lutely necessary. We desire to see a living scene 
 portrayed before us ; we must know and judge for 
 ourselves. We must perceive both cause and effect, 
 and then make the application to our own lives. 
 
 Art, especially dramatic art, is a necessity of 
 human nature. " Without art," says William Winter, 
 "each of us would be alone." Only by art are we 
 brought near together, and chiefly in our art will 
 be found our true advance in civilization. The 
 monologue is a new method, a new avenue of 
 approach from heart to heart. 
 
 Dramatic art must have many forms. When no 
 longer truthfully presented by the play, as is often 
 the case; when it has become corrupted into a 
 spectacular show, into something for the eye rather 
 than for the mind ; when no longer concerned with 
 the interpretation of character and truth, or when 
 debased to mere money making, then the irre- 
 pressible dramatic spirit must evolve a new form. 
 Hence, the origin and the significance of the 
 monologue. 
 
 Whether the play can be restored to dramatic 
 dignity or not, the monologue has come to stay. 
 As a parallel, or even as a subordinate phase of 
 
Importance of the Monologue 261 
 
 dramatic art, it has become a part of hterature. It 
 is distinct from the play, and from every other 
 Hterary form or phase of histrionic expression. 
 
 Of all forms of art, the monologue has most 
 direct relation to one character only, a character 
 not posing for his portrait. It portrays and inter- 
 prets an individual unconsciously revealing him- 
 self. It presents some crucial situation of lil'e, and 
 brings one character face to face with another char- 
 acter, the one best calculated to reveal the hidden 
 springs of conduct. 
 
 It must not be imphed that the monologue is 
 superior to other forms of art. It certainly will 
 supersede no other form of poetry. It is unique, 
 and its pecuhar nature may be seen in comparing 
 it with a play. 
 
 A monologue may be of any length, from a few 
 hues to that of "The Ring and the Book," which 
 is really a collection of monologues, the longest 
 poem, next to '* Faerie Queene," in the Enghsh 
 language. The subject of the monologue can be 
 infinitely varied. By its aid almost everything can 
 be treated dramatically. It is far more flexible 
 than the formal drama, because the same move- 
 ment and formality of plot are not required as in 
 the play. 
 
 It can be conceived upon any plane, — burlesque, 
 farce, comedy, or tragedy. It can be prose in form, 
 or it may adopt any metre or length of line. It may 
 employ the most commonplace slang, and the dia- 
 lect of the lowest characters, or it may adopt the 
 highest poetic diction. 
 
 A monologue can be presented anywhere, for it 
 demands no stage, no carloads of expensive scenery, 
 no trained troupe of a hundred artists. 
 
262 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 It does require, however, an artist, a thoroughly 
 trained artist, — with perfect command of thought, 
 feeling, imagination, and passion, as well as com- 
 plete control of voice and body. Fully as much as 
 the play, it requires obedience to the laws of art, 
 and demands that the artist be not fettered and 
 trammelled as to his ideal. He is not compelled 
 to repress his finest intuitions, or to soften down 
 his honest conceptions of a character and the place 
 of that character in a scene, for the sake of some 
 "star." 
 
 The monologue is not in danger of being spoiled 
 by some second-class actor in a subordinate part. 
 The artist is free to adopt any means to meet the 
 taste, judgment, and criticism of the audience, and 
 to realize for himself the true nature of art. The 
 monologue is less likely than the play to be degraded 
 into a spectacular exhibition. 
 
 The monologue, however, has its dangers. The 
 play has the experience of centuries of criticism, 
 and constant discussion, but to the critics, the mon- 
 ologue is new. It may be well said that no adequate 
 criticism of any interpreter of a monologue has yet 
 been given. 
 
 Not only this, but various cheap and chaotic 
 performances have been called monologues, simply 
 for lack of a word. These are often a mere gather- 
 ing together of comic stories and cheap jokes, and 
 have nothing really in common with the dramatic 
 monologue. 
 
 Such perversions, however, are to be expected. 
 The lack of critical discussion, the lack of definition 
 and true appreciation of its possibilities lead natu- 
 rally to such a confused situation. 
 
 The interpreter of the monologue must be a 
 
Importance of the Monologue 263 
 
 serious student, for he is creating or estabhsh- 
 ing a new art. If he is careless and superficial, 
 and yields to that universal temptation to exhi- 
 bition which has been in every age the danger of 
 dramatic art, he will fail, and bring the mono- 
 logue into consequent contempt. He must study 
 the spirit underlying all great art and take his 
 own work seriously, thinking more of it than of 
 himself. 
 
 The monologue has, also, hterary limitations. 
 It can never take the place of the play, nor must 
 it lead us to disparage the play. The play has its 
 function and in some form will forever survive. 
 The monologue interprets certain aspects of char- 
 acter which can never be interpreted in any other 
 way ; but it can never show as adequately as the 
 play the complexity of human life. It cannot por- 
 tray movement as well as the play. 
 
 The monologue, however, has its own sphere. 
 It can reveal the attitude of one man towards life, 
 towards truth, towards a situation, towards other 
 human beings, more fully than is possible in any 
 other form of art. Its theme is not the same as that 
 of the play. How can a play express the subjective 
 struggles and heroism embodied in "The Last 
 Ride Together ?'' (p. 205) . What form of art could 
 so effectively unmask the arch hypocrite in the 
 "Sohloquy of the Spanish Cloister" (p. 58) ? Try 
 to put this theme into a play, or even into a novel, 
 and Browning's short monologue will show its su- 
 periority at once. The monologue can absorb one 
 moment of attention, paint one picture, which, 
 though without the movement of a drama, may yet 
 the more adequately reveal the depths of a char- 
 acter. What an inspiring conception is found in 
 
264 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 "The Patriot" (p. 3); if expanded into a play, 
 its purpose would be defeated. The tenderness 
 and atmosphere of home in "By the Fireside," no 
 stage could present. 
 
 Did not KipHng choose wisely his form of art 
 in portraying the character of Tommy Atkins ? Is 
 there any more effective way of making known to 
 the world the character and emotions peculiar to 
 a man when soldier subordinates man ? 
 
 After even a superficial study of modern poetry, 
 who can fail to realize that the monologue is a dis- 
 tinct form of hterature.^ How vast the range of 
 subjects and emotions expressed, and yet under- 
 neath we find a form common to them all. This 
 form has served to unfold the peculiar actions of 
 Mrs. Caudle's mind and also the subHme convic- 
 tions of Rabbi Ben Ezra. It gives us the point of 
 view and the feehng, not only of Tommy Atkins, 
 but the high ideals and exalted emotions of Abt 
 Vogler. It has been used to immortalize "Tray," 
 a "mere instinctive dog," as well as to express the 
 resolute spirit of Job and the cold, calculating 
 counsel of his friends. It has even imaged the 
 sublimest thoughts and emotions of the Psalms. 
 
 Surely a form that has proven itself so ade- 
 quate, so universal a help to human expression, is 
 worthy of being regarded and carefully studied as 
 one of the permanent modes of embodying human 
 experience. 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 265 
 
 XVII. SOME TYPICAL MONOLOGUES FROM 
 BROWNING 
 
 APPEARANCES 
 
 And so you found that poor room dull, 
 Dark, hardly to your taste, my Dear? 
 
 Its features seemed unbeautiful: 
 
 But this I know — 't was there, not here, 
 
 You plighted troth to me, the word 
 
 Which — ask that poor room how it heard ! 
 
 And this rich room obtains your praise 
 
 Unqualified, — so bright, so fair. 
 So all whereat perfection stays ? 
 
 Ay, but remember — here, not there, 
 The other word was spoken ! Ask 
 This rich room how you dropped the mask ! 
 
 ANDREA DEL SARTO 
 
 (called "the faultless painter") 
 
 But do not let us quarrel any more, 
 No, my Lucrezia ! bear with me for once : 
 Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. 
 You turn your face, but does it bring your heart ? 
 I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear. 
 Treat his own subject after his ov/n way, 
 Fix his own time, accept too his own price. 
 And shut the money into this small hand 
 When next it takes mine. Will it ? tenderly ? 
 Oh, I '11 content him, — but to-morrow. Love ! 
 I often am much wearier than you think, 
 This evening more than usual: and it seems 
 As if — forgive now — should you let me sit 
 Here by the window, with your hand in mine. 
 And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, 
 Both of one mind, as married people use. 
 Quietly, quietly the evening through. 
 
266 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 I might get up to-morrow to my work 
 Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. 
 To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this ! 
 Your soft hand is a woman of itself, 
 And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. 
 Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve 
 For each of the five pictures we require: 
 It saves a model. So ! keep looking so — 
 My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds ! 
 
 — How could you ever prick those perfect ears, 
 Even to put the pearl there ! oh, so sweet — 
 My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, 
 Which everybody looks on and calls his. 
 
 And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn. 
 While she looks — no one's : very dear, no less. 
 You smile ? why, there 's my picture ready made. 
 There 's what we painters call our harmony ! 
 A common grayness silvers everything, — 
 All in a twilight, you and I alike 
 
 — You, at the point of your first pride in me 
 (That 's gone, you know) — but I, at every point ; 
 My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down 
 To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. 
 
 There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; 
 
 That length of convent-wall across the way 
 
 Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; 
 
 The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, 
 
 And autumn grows, autumn in everything. 
 
 Eh ? the whole seems to fall into a shape, 
 
 As if I saw alike my work and self 
 
 And all that I was born to be and do, 
 
 A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. 
 
 How strange now looks the life he makes us lead; 
 
 So free we seem, so fettered fast we are ! 
 
 I feel he laid the fetter : let it lie ! 
 
 This chamber for example — turn your head — 
 
 All that's behind us ! You don't understand 
 
 Nor care to understand about my art. 
 
 But you can hear at least when people speak : 
 
 And that cartoon, the second from the door 
 
 — It is the thing, Love ! so such things should be — 
 Behold Madonna ! — I am bold to say. 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 267 
 
 I can do with my pencil what I know, 
 
 What I see, what at bottom of my heart 
 
 I wish for, if I ever wish so deep — 
 
 Do easily, too — when I say, perfectly, 
 
 I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge. 
 
 Who listened to the Legate's talk last week; 
 
 And just as much they used to say in France. 
 
 At any rate 't is easy, all of it ! 
 
 No sketches first, no studies, that's long past: 
 
 I do what many dream of, all their lives, 
 
 — Dream ? strive to do, and agonize to do. 
 
 And fail in doing. I could count twenty such 
 
 On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, 
 
 Who strive — you don't know how the others strive 
 
 To paint a little thing like that you smeared 
 
 Carelessly passing with your robes afloat, — 
 
 Yet do much less, so much less. Someone says, 
 
 (I know his name, no matter) — so much less ! 
 
 Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. 
 
 There burns a truer light of God in them. 
 
 In their vexed, beating, stuffed and stopped-up brain. 
 
 Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt 
 
 This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. 
 
 Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, 
 
 Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me. 
 
 Enter and take their place there sure enough, 
 
 Tho' they come back and cannot tell the world. 
 
 My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. 
 
 The sudden blood of these men ! at a word — 
 
 Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. 
 
 I, painting from myself and to myself. 
 
 Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame 
 
 Or their praise either. Somebody remarks 
 
 Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, 
 
 His hue mistaken ; what of that ? or else. 
 
 Rightly traced and well ordered ; what of that ? 
 
 Speak as they please, what does the mountain care ? 
 
 Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, 
 
 Or what 's a heaven for ? All is silver-gray. 
 
 Placid and perfect with my art : the worse ! 
 
 I know both what I want and what might gain. 
 
 And yet how profitless to know, to sigh 
 
268 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 "Had I been two, another and myself, 
 
 Our head would have o'erlooked the world ! " No doubt. 
 
 Yonder 's a work now, of that famous youth 
 
 The Urbinate who died five years ago. 
 
 ('T is copied, George Vasari sent it me.) 
 
 Well, I can fancy how he did it all. 
 
 Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, 
 
 Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, 
 
 Above and thro' his art — for it gives way ; 
 
 That arm is wrongly put — and there again — 
 
 A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines. 
 
 Its body, so to speak: its soul is right. 
 
 He means right — that, a child may understand. 
 
 Still, what an arm ! and I could alter it : 
 
 But all the play, the insight and the stretch — 
 
 Out of me, out of me ! And wherefore out ? 
 
 Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, 
 
 We might have risen to Rafael, I and you ! 
 
 Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think — 
 
 More than I merit, yes, by many times. 
 
 But had you — oh, with the same perfect brow. 
 
 And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, 
 
 And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird 
 
 The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare — 
 
 Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind ! 
 
 Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged 
 
 "God and the glory ! never care for gain. 
 
 The present by the future, what is that ? 
 
 Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo ! 
 
 Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" 
 
 I might have done it for you. So it seems: 
 
 Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules. 
 
 Besides, incentives come from the soul's self; 
 
 The rest avail not. Why do I need you ? 
 
 What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo ? 
 
 In this world, who can do a thing, will not; 
 
 And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: 
 
 Yet the will 's somewhat — somewhat, too, the power — 
 
 And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, 
 
 God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 
 
 'T is safer for me, if the award be strict. 
 
 That I am something underrated here, 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 269 
 
 Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. 
 
 I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, 
 
 For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 
 
 The best is when they pass and look aside; 
 
 But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. 
 
 Well may they speak ! That Francis, that first time. 
 
 And that long festal year at Fontainebleau ! 
 
 I surely then could sometimes leave the ground. 
 
 Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, 
 
 In that humane great monarch's golden look, — 
 
 One finger in his beard or twisted curl 
 
 Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile. 
 
 One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, 
 
 The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, 
 
 I painting proudly with his breath on me, 
 
 All his court round him, seeing with his eyes. 
 
 Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls 
 
 Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts, — 
 
 And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond. 
 
 This in the background, waiting on my work, 
 
 To crown the issue with a last reward ! 
 
 A good time, was it not, my kingly days ? 
 
 And had you not grown restless . . . but I know — 
 
 'T is done and past ; 't was right, my instinct said ; 
 
 Too live the life grew, golden and not gray: 
 
 And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt 
 
 Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. 
 
 How could it end in any other way ? 
 
 You called me, and I came home to your heart. 
 
 The triumph was — to reach and stay there ; since 
 
 I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost ? 
 
 Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, 
 
 You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine ! 
 
 "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; 
 
 The Roman's is the better when you pray. 
 
 But still the other's Virgin was his wife — " 
 
 Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge 
 
 Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows 
 
 My better fortune, I resolve to think. 
 
 For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, 
 
 Said one day Agnolo, his very self. 
 
 To Rafael ... I have known it all these years . . . 
 
270 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts 
 
 Upon a palace- wall for Rome to see, 
 
 Too lifted up in heart because of it) 
 
 *' Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub 
 
 Goes up and down our Florence, none cares hov/, 
 
 Who, were he set to plan and execute 
 
 As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, 
 
 Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours ! " 
 
 To Rafael's ! — And indeed the arm is wrong. 
 
 I hardly dare . . . yet, only you to see, 
 
 Give the chalk here — quick, thus the line should go ! 
 
 Ay, but the soul ! he 's Rafael ! rub it out ! 
 
 Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, 
 
 (What he ? why, who but Michel Agnolo ? 
 
 Do you forget already words like those ?) 
 
 If really there was such a chance so lost, — 
 
 Is, whether you 're — not grateful — but more pleased. 
 
 Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed ! 
 
 This hour has been an hour ! Another smile ? 
 
 If you would sit thus by me every night 
 
 I should work better, do you comprehend ? 
 
 I mean that I should earn more, give you more. 
 
 See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; 
 
 Morello 's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, 
 
 The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 
 
 Come from the window, love, — come in, at last. 
 
 Inside the melancholy little house 
 
 We built to be so gay with. God is just. 
 
 King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights 
 
 When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, 
 
 The walls become illumined, brick from brick 
 
 Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold. 
 
 That gold of his I did cement them with ! 
 
 Let us but love each other. Must you go .? 
 
 That Cousin here again ? he waits outside ? 
 
 Must see you — you, and not with me ? Those loans ? 
 
 More gaming debts to pay .'' you smiled for that ? 
 
 Well, let smiles buy me ! have you more to spend ? 
 
 While hand and eye and something of a heart 
 
 Are left me, work 's my ware, and what 's it worth ? 
 
 I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit 
 
 The gray remainder of the evening out. 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 271 
 
 Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly 
 
 How I could paint, were I but back in France, 
 
 One picture, just one more — the Virgin's face. 
 
 Not yours this time ! I want you at my side 
 
 To hear them — that is, Michel Agnolo — 
 
 Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. 
 
 Will you ? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. 
 
 I take the subjects for his corridor. 
 
 Finish the portrait out of hand — there, there. 
 
 And throw him in another thing or two 
 
 If he demurs; the whole should prove enough 
 
 To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, 
 
 What's better and what's all I care about, 
 
 Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff ! 
 
 Love, does that please you ? Ah, but what does he, 
 
 The Cousin ! what does he to please you more ? 
 
 I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. 
 I regret little, I would change still less. 
 Since there my past life lies, why alter it ? 
 The very wrong to Francis ! — it is true 
 I took his coin, was tempted and complied. 
 And built this house and sinned, and all is said. 
 My father and my mother died of want. 
 Well, had I riches of my own ? you see 
 How one gets rich ! Let each one bear his lot. 
 They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: 
 And I have laboured somewhat in my time 
 And not been paid profusely. Some good son 
 Paint my two hundred pictures — let him try ! 
 No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, 
 You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. 
 This must suffice me here. What would one have ? 
 In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance — 
 Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, 
 Meted on each side by the angel's reed. 
 For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me 
 To cover — the three first without a wife. 
 While I have mine ! So — still they overcome 
 Because there 's still Lucrezia, — as I choose. 
 
 Again the Cousin's whistle ! Go, my Love. 
 
272 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 MULEYKEH 
 
 If a stranger passed the tent of Hoseyn, he cried "A churl's !" 
 Or haply *'God help the man who has neither salt nor bread !" 
 
 — *'Nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scorn 
 More than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking 
 
 pearls, 
 
 — Holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead 
 
 On his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes 
 morn. 
 
 "What if no flocks and herds enrich the son of Sinan ? 
 
 They went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the due, 
 
 Blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. 
 
 ' God gave them, let them go ! But never since time began, 
 
 Muleykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, 
 
 A.nd you are my prize, my Pearl : I laugh at men's land and gold ! " 
 
 "So in the pride of his soul laughs Hoseyn — and right, I say. 
 
 Do the ten steeds run a race of glory .? Outstripping all, 
 
 Ever Muleykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. 
 
 Who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that day. 
 
 'Silence,' or, last but one, is 'The Cuffed,' as we use to call 
 
 Whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. 
 
 Right, Hoseyn, I say, to laugh!" 
 
 "Boasts he Muleykeh the Pearl ?" the stranger replies: "Be sure 
 
 On him I waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both 
 
 On Duhl the son of Sheyban, who withers away in heart 
 
 For envy of Hoseyn's luck. Such sickness admits no cure. 
 
 A certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, 
 
 'For the vulgar — flocks and herds ! The Pearl is a prize apart.'" 
 
 Lo, Duhl the son of Sheyban comes riding to Hoseyn's tent. 
 And he casts his saddle down, and enters and "Peace!" bids he. 
 "You are poor, I know the cause: my plenty shall mend the wrong. 
 'T is said of your Pearl — the price of a hundred camels spent 
 In her purchase were scarce ill paid : such prudence is far from me 
 Who proffer a thousand. Speak ! Long parley may last too long." 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 273 
 
 Said Hoseyn "You feed young beasts a many, of famous breed, 
 Slit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of Miizennem : 
 There stumbles no weak-eyed she in tKe line as it climbs the hill. 
 But I love Muleykeh's face: her forefront whitens indeed 
 Like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. Your camels — go gaze on 
 
 them! 
 Her fetlock is foam-splashed too. Myself am the richer still." 
 
 A year goes by : lo, back to the tent again rides Duhl. 
 
 "You are open-hearted, ay — moist-handed, a very prince. 
 
 Why should I speak of sale .? Be the mare your simple gift ! 
 
 My son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts 'Fool, 
 
 Beg for his sake the Pearl ! Be God the rewarder, since 
 
 God pays debts seven for one : who squanders on Him shows thrift.' " 
 
 Said Hoseyn "God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives 
 That lamp due measure of oil : lamp lighted — hold high, wave wide 
 Its comfort for others to share ! once quench it, what help is left .? 
 The oil of your lamp is your son : I shine while Muleykeh lives. 
 Would I beg your son to cheer my dark if Muleykeh died .^ 
 It is life against life : what good avails to the life-bereft ? " 
 
 Another year, and — hist ! What craft is it Duhl designs ? 
 
 He alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time. 
 
 But, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench 
 
 Half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night combines 
 
 With the robber — and such is he : Duhl, covetous up to crime, 
 
 Must wring from Hoseyn 's grasp the Pearl, by whatever the wrench. 
 
 "He was hunger-bitten, I heard: I tempted with half my store. 
 And a gibe was all my thanks. Is he generous like Spring dew ? 
 Account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one ! 
 He has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode: nay, 
 
 more — 
 For a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two: 
 I will beg ! Yet I nowise gained by the tale of my wife and son. 
 
 "I swear by the Holy House, my head will I never wash 
 Till I filch his Pearl away. Fair dealing I tried, then guile. 
 And now I resort to force. He said we must live or die: 
 Let him die, then, — let me live ! Be bold — but not too rash ! 
 I have found me a peeping-place : breast, bury your breathing while 
 I explore for myself ! Now, breathe ! He deceived me not, the spy ! 
 
 18 
 
274 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 ** As he said — there lies in peace Hoseyn — how happy ! Beside 
 Stands tethered the Pearl: Thrice winds her headstall about his 
 
 wrist : 
 'T is therefore he sleeps so sound — the moon through the roof 
 
 reveals. 
 And, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and wide, 
 Buheyseh, her sister born : fleet is she yet ever missed 
 The winning tail's fire-flash a-stream past the thunderous heels. 
 
 *'No less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case some 
 
 thief 
 Should enter and seize and fly with the first, as I mean to do. 
 What then? The Pearl is the Pearl: once mount her we both 
 
 escape." 
 Through the skirt-fold in glides Duhl, — so a serpent disturbs no 
 
 leaf 
 In a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest : clean through, 
 He is noiselessly at his work : as he planned, he performs the rape. 
 
 He has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped 
 The headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as before, 
 He springs on the Pearl, is launched on the Desert like bolt from bow. 
 Up starts our plundered man : from his breast though the heart be 
 
 ripped. 
 Yet his mind has the mastery : behold, in a minute more, 
 He is out and off and away on Buheyseh, whose worth we know ! 
 
 And Hoseyn — his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to 
 
 ride. 
 And Buheyseh does her part, — they gain — they are gaining fast 
 On the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Darraj to cross and quit. 
 And to reach the ridge El-Saban, — no safety till that be spied ! 
 And Buheyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last. 
 For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit. 
 
 She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer : 
 Buheyseh is mad with hope — beat sister she shall and must 
 Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank. 
 She is near now, nose by tail — they are neck by croup — joy ! fear ! 
 What folly makes Hoseyn shout "Dog Duhl, Damned son of the 
 
 Dust, 
 Touch the right ear and press with your foot my Pearl's left flank ! " 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 275 
 
 And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muleykeh as prompt perceived 
 
 Who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey. 
 
 And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore. 
 
 And Hoseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, 
 
 Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may: 
 
 Then he turned Buheyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore. 
 
 And lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hoseyn upon the ground 
 
 Weeping: and neighbors came, the tribesmen of Benu-Asad 
 
 In the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his grief; 
 
 And he told from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had wound 
 
 His way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad ! 
 
 And how Buheyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the thief. 
 
 And they jeered him, one and all : "Poor Hoseyn is crazed past hope ! 
 How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite ? 
 To have simply held the tongue were a task for a boy or girl, 
 And here were Muleykeh again, the eyed like an antelope. 
 The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night !" — 
 "And the beaten in speed !" wept Hoseyn : "You never have loved 
 my Pearl." 
 
 COUNT GISMONDi 
 
 AIX IN PROVENCE 
 
 Christ God who savest man, save most of men Count Gismond 
 who saved me ! Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, chose 
 time and place and company to suit it; when he struck at length 
 my honor, 't was with all his strength. And doubtlessly ere he 
 could draw all points to one, he must have schemed ! That miser- 
 able morning saw few half so happy as I seemed, while being dressed 
 in queen's array to give our tourney prize away. I thought they 
 loved me, did me grace to please themselves ; 't was all their deed ; 
 God makes, or fair or foul, our face ; if showing mine so caused to 
 bleed my cousins' hearts, they should have dropped a word, and 
 straight the play had stopped. They, too, so beauteous ! Each a 
 queen by virtue of her brow and breast; not needing to be crowned, 
 
 1 To emphasize the nature and importance of poetic form (see pp. 211, 
 213), "Count Gismond" and " By the Fireside" are here printed as prose. 
 Find the length of line, the stanzas, and the metre, the meaning and appropri- 
 ateness of all these. How should they be paragraphed ? 
 
276 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 I mean, as I do. E'en when I was dressed, had either of them spoke, 
 instead of glancing sideways with still head ! But no : they let me 
 laugh, and sing my birthday song quite through, adjust the last rose 
 in my garland, fling a last look on the mirror, trust my arms to each 
 an arm of theirs, and so descend the castle-stairs — and come out 
 on the morning troop of merry friends who kissed my cheek, and 
 called me queen, and made me stoop under the canopy — (a streak 
 that pierced it, of the outside sun, powdered with gold its gloom's 
 soft dun) — and they could let me take my state and foolish throne 
 amid applause of all come there to celebrate my queen 's-day — Oh 
 I think the cause of much was, they forgot no crowd makes up for 
 parents in their shroud ! However that be, all eyes were bent upon 
 me, when my cousins cast theirs down ; 't was time I should present 
 the victor's crown, but . . . there, 't will last no long time . . . the 
 old mist again blinds me as then it did. How vain ! See ! Gis- 
 mond's at the gate, in talk with his two boys: I can proceed. Well, 
 at that moment, who should stalk forth boldly — to my face, indeed 
 — but Gauthier ? and he thundered " Stay ! " and all stayed. "Bring 
 no crowns, I say ! bring torches ! Wind the penance-sheet about 
 her ! Let her shun the chaste, or lay herself before their feet ! Shall 
 she, whose body I embraced a night long, queen it in the day ? For 
 honour's sake no crowns, I say ! " I ? What I answered ? As I 
 live I never fancied such a thing as answer possible to give. What 
 says the body when they spring some monstrous torture-engine's 
 whole strength on it .? No more says the soul. Till out strode Gis- 
 mond; then I knew that I w^as saved. I never met his face before, 
 but, at first view, I felt quite sure that God had set Himself to Satan ; 
 who would spend a minute's mistrust on the end? He strode to 
 Gauthier, in his throat gave him the lie, then struck his mouth with 
 one back-handed blow that wrote in blood men's verdict there. 
 North, South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, and damned, 
 and truth stood up instead. This glads me most, that I enjoyed the 
 heart of the joy, with my content in watching Gismond unalloyed 
 by any doubt of the event : God took that on him — I was bid watch 
 Gismond for my part : I did. Did I not watch him while he let his 
 armourer just brace his greaves, rivet his hauberk, on the fret the 
 while ! His foot . . . my memory leaves no least stamp out, nor 
 how anon he pulled his ringing gauntlets on. And e'en before the 
 trumpet's sound was finished, prone lay the false knight, prone as his 
 lie, upon the ground : Gismond flew at him, used no sleight o' the 
 sword, but open-breasted drove, cleaving till out the truth he clove. 
 Which done, he dragged him to my feet and said "Here die, but 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 277 
 
 end thy breath in full confession, lest thou fleet from my first, to 
 God's second death ! Say, hast thou lied ?" And, "I have lied to 
 God and her," he said, and died. Then Gismond, kneeling to me, 
 asked — What safe my heart holds, though no word could I repeat 
 now, if I tasked my powers forever, to a third dear even as you are. 
 Pass the rest until I sank upon his breast. Over my head his arm 
 he flung against the world ; and scarce I felt his sword (that dripped 
 by me and swung) a little shifted in its belt : for he began to say the 
 while how South our home lay many a mile. So, 'mid the shouting 
 multitude we two walked forth to never more return. My cousins 
 have pursued their life, untroubled as before I vexed them. Gau- 
 thier's dwelling-place God lighten ! May his soul find grace ! Our 
 elder boy has got the clear great brow ; tho' when his brother's black 
 full eye shows scorn, it . . . Gismond here ? And have you brought 
 my tercel back ? I was just telling Adela how many birds it struck 
 since May, 
 
 BY THE FIRESIDE 
 
 How well I know what I mean to do when the long dark autumn 
 evenings come : and where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue ? with the 
 music of all thy voices, dumb in life's November too ! I shall be 
 found by the fire, suppose, o'er a great wise book, as beseemeth age ; 
 while the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, and I turn the page, 
 and I turn the page, not verse now, only prose ! Till the young ones 
 whisper, finger on lip, "There he is at it, deep in Greek: now then, 
 or never, out we slip to cut from the hazels by the creek a mainmast 
 for our ship!" I shall be at it indeed, my friends! Greek puts 
 already on either side such a branch-work forth as soon extends to 
 a vista opening far and wide, and I pass out where it ends. The 
 outside-frame, like your hazel-trees — but the inside-archway widens 
 fast, and a rarer sort succeeds to these, and we slope to Italy at last 
 and youth, by green degrees. I follow wherever I am led, knowing 
 so well the leader's hand : oh woman-country, wooed not wed, loved 
 all the more by earth's male-lands, laid to their hearts instead ! Look 
 at the ruined chapel again half-way up in the Alpine gorge ! Is that 
 a tower, I point you plain, or is it a mill, or an iron-forge breaks 
 solitude in vain ? A turn, and we stand in the heart of things; the 
 woods are round us, heaped and dim ; from slab to slab how it slips 
 and springs, the thread of water single and slim, thro' the ravage 
 some torrent brings ! Does it feed the little lake below ? That 
 speck of white just on its marge is Pella ; see, in the evening-glow. 
 
278 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 how sharp the silver spear-heads charge when Alp meets heaven in 
 snow ! On our other side is the straight-up rock ; and a path is 
 kept 'twixt the gorge and it by boulder-stones where lichens mock 
 the marks on a moth, and small ferns fit their teeth to the polished 
 block. Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers, and thorny 
 balls, each three in one, the chestnuts throw on our path in showers ! 
 for the drop of the woodland fruit's begun, these early November 
 hours, that crimson the creeper's leaf across like a splash of blood, 
 intense, abrupt, o'er a shield else gold from rim to boss, and lay it 
 for show on the fairy-cupped elf-needled mat of moss, by the rose- 
 flesh mushrooms, undivulged last evening — nay, in to-day's first 
 dew yon sudden coral nipple bulged, where a freaked fawn-colored 
 flaky crew of toadstools peep indulged. And yonder, at foot of the 
 fronting ridge that takes the turn to a range beyond, is the chapel 
 reached by the one-arched bridge, where the water is stopped in a 
 stagnant pond danced over by the midge. The chapel and bridge 
 are of stone alike, blackish-gray and mostly wet; cut hemp- stalks 
 steep in the narrow dyke. See here again, how the lichens fret and 
 the roots of the ivy strike ! Poor little place, where its one priest 
 comes on a festa-day, if he comes at all, to the dozen folk from their 
 scattered homes, gathered within that precinct small by the dozen 
 ways one roams — to drop from the charcoal-burners' huts, or climb 
 from the hemp-dressers' low shed, leave the grange where the wood- 
 man stores his nuts, or the wattled cote where the fowlers spread 
 their gear on the rock's bare juts. It has some pretension too, this 
 front, with its bit of fresco half-moon-wise set over the porch. Art's 
 early wont : 't is John in the Desert, I surmise, but has borne the 
 weather's brunt — not from the fault of the builder, though, for a 
 pent-house properly projects where three carved beams make a 
 certain show, dating — good thought of our architect's — 'five, six, 
 nine, he lets you know. And all day long a bird sings there, and 
 a stray sheep drinks at the pond at times; the place is silent and 
 aware ; it has had its scenes, its joys and crimes, but that is its own 
 affair. My perfect wife, my Leonor, oh heart, my own, oh eyes, 
 mine too, Whom else could I dare look backward for, with whom 
 besides should I dare pursue the path gray heads abhor ? For it 
 leads to a crag's sheer edge with them ; youth, flowery all the way, 
 there stops — not they; age threatens and they contemn, till they 
 reach the gulf wherein youth drops, one inch from life's safe hem ! 
 With me, youth led ... I will speak now, no longer watch you as 
 you sit reading by firelight, that great brow and the spirit-small hand 
 propping it, mutely, my heart knows how — when, if I think but 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 279 
 
 deep enough, you are wont to answer, prompt as rhyme; and you, 
 too, find without rebuff response your soul seeks many a time, pierc- 
 ing its fine flesh-stuff. My own, confirm me ! If I tread this path 
 back, is it not in pride to think how little I dreamed it led to an age 
 so blest that, by its side, youth seems the waste instead ? My own, 
 see where the years conduct ! At first, 't was something our two 
 souls should mix as- mists do ; each is sucked in each now : on, the 
 new stream rolls, whatever rocks obstruct. Think, when our one 
 soul understands the great Word which makes all things new, when 
 earth breaks up and heaven expands, how will the change strike me 
 and you in the house not made with hands } Oh I must feel your 
 brain prompt mine, your heart anticipate my heart, you must be just 
 before, in fine, see and make me see, for your part, new depths of 
 the divine ! But who could have expected this when we two drew 
 together first just for the obvious human bliss to satisfy life's daily 
 thirst with a thing men seldom miss ? Come back with me to the 
 first of all, let us lean and love it over again, let us now forget and now 
 recall, break the rosary in a pearly rain, and gather what we let fall ! 
 What did I say ? — that a small bird sings all day long, save when a 
 brown pair of hawks from the wood float with wide wings strained 
 to a bell: 'gainst noon-day glare you count the streaks and rings. 
 But at afternoon or almost eve 't is better ; then the silence grows 
 to that degree, you half believe it must get rid of what it knows, its 
 bosom does so heave. Hither we walked then, side by side, arm in 
 arm and cheek to cheek, and still I questioned or replied, while my 
 heart, convulsed to really speak, lay choking in its pride. Silent 
 the crumbling bridge we cross, and pity and praise the chapel sweet, 
 and care about the fresco's loss, and wish for our souls a like retreat, 
 and wonder at the moss. Stoop and kneel on the settle under, look 
 through the window's grated square : nothing to see ! For fear of 
 plunder, the cross is down and the altar bare, as if thieves don't fear 
 thunder. We stoop and look in through the grate, see the little porch 
 and rustic door, read duly the dead builder's date; then cross the 
 bridge that we crossed before, take the path again — but wait ! Oh 
 moment one and infinite ! the water slips o'er stock and stone ; the 
 West is tender, hardly bright : how gray at once is the evening grown 
 — one star, its chrysolite ! We two stood there with never a third, 
 but each by each, as each knew well: the sights we saw and the 
 sounds we heard, the lights and the shades made up a spell till the 
 trouble grew and stirred. Oh, the little more, and how much it is ! 
 and the little less, and what worlds away ! How a sound shall quicken 
 content to bliss, or a breath suspend the blood's best play, and life 
 
280 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 be a proof of this ! Had she willed it, still had stood the screen so 
 slight, so sure, 'twixt my love and her: I could fix her face with a 
 guard between, and find her soul as when friends confer, friends — 
 lovers that might have been. For my heart had a touch of the wood- 
 land time, wanting to sleep now over its best. Shake the whole tree 
 in the summer-prime, but bring to the last leaf no such test ! "Hold 
 the last fact ! " runs the rhyme. For a chance to make your little 
 much, to gain a lover and lose a friend, venture the tree and a myriad 
 such, when nothing you mar but the year can mend : but a last leaf 
 — fear to touch ! Yet should it unfasten itself and fall eddying 
 down till it find your face at some slight wind — best chance of all ! 
 be your heart henceforth its dwelling-place you trembled to forestall ! 
 Worth how well, those dark gray eyes, that hair so dark and dear, 
 how worth that a man should strive and agonize, and taste a veriest 
 hell on earth for the hope of such a prize ! You might have turned 
 and tried a man, set him a space to weary and wear, and prove which 
 suited more your plan, his best of hope or his worst despair, yet end 
 as he began. But you spared me this, like the heart you are, and 
 filled my empty heart at a word. If two lives join, there is oft a scar, 
 they are one and one, with a shadowy third ; one near one is too far. 
 A moment after, and hands unseen were hanging the night around 
 us fast; but we knew that a bar was broken between life and life: 
 we were mixed at last in spite of the mortal screen. The forests had 
 done it; there they stood; we caught for a moment the powers at 
 play: they had mingled us so, for once and good, their work was 
 done — we might go or stay, they relapsed to their ancient mood. 
 How the world is made for each of us ! how all we perceive and know 
 in it tends to some moment's product thus, when a soul declares 
 itself — to wit, by its fruit, the thing it does ! Be hate that fruit or 
 love that fruit, it forwards the general deed of man: and each of 
 the Many helps to recruit the life of the race by a general plan ; each 
 living his own, to boot. I am named and known by that moment's 
 feat ; there took my station and degree ; so grew my own small life 
 complete, as nature obtained her best of me — one born to love you, 
 sweet ! And to watch you sink by the fireside now back again, as 
 you mutely sit musing by firelight, that great brow and the spirit- 
 small hand propping it, yonder, my heart knows how ! So, earth 
 has gained by one man the more, and the gain of earth must be 
 heaven's gain too; and the whole is well worth thinking o'er when 
 autumn comes: which I mean to do one day, as I said before. 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 281 
 
 PHEIDIPPIDES 
 
 ■^atpere, viKU)fxev 
 
 First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock ! 
 Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all ! 
 Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise 
 — Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and spear ! 
 Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer, 
 Now, henceforth and forever, — O latest to whom I upraise 
 Hand and heart and voice ! For Athens, leave pasture and flock ! 
 Present to help, potent to save. Pan — patron I call ! 
 
 Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return ! 
 See, 't is myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks ! 
 Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, 
 "Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! 
 Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I 
 
 obeyed. 
 Ran and raced : like stubble, some field which a fire runs through. 
 Was the space between city and city : two days, two nights did I burn 
 Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. 
 
 Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come. 
 
 Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth; 
 
 Razed to the ground is Eretria — but Athens, shall Athens sink. 
 
 Drop into dust and die — the flower of Hellas utterly die. 
 
 Die with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by ? 
 
 Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruc- 
 tion's brink ? 
 
 How, — when ? No care for my limbs ! — there 's lightning in all 
 and some — 
 
 Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth ! " 
 
 O my Athens — Sparta love thee ? Did Sparta respond ? 
 Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust. 
 Malice, — each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate ! 
 Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood 
 Quivering, — the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry 
 
 wood: 
 "Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? 
 Thunder, thou Zeus ! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond 
 Swing of thy spear ? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye must ' ! '* 
 
282 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 No bolt launched from Olumpos ! Lo, their answer at last ! 
 *'Has Persia come, — does Athens ask aid, — may Sparta befriend ? 
 Nowise precipitate judgment — too weighty the issue at stake ! 
 Count we no time lost time which lags thro' respect to the Gods ! 
 Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the odds 
 In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take 
 Full-circle her state in the sky ! ' Already she rounds to it fast : 
 Athens must wait, patient as we — who judgment suspend." 
 
 Athens, — except for that sparkle, — thy name, I had mouldered to 
 
 ash ! 
 That sent a blaze thro' my blood; off, off and away was I back, 
 — Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile ! 
 Yet "O Gods of my land !" I cried, as each hillock and plain. 
 Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again, 
 "Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you ere- 
 
 while ? 
 Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation ! Too rash 
 Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack ! 
 
 "Oak and olive and bay, — I bid you cease to en wreathe 
 Brows made bold by your leaf ! Fade at the Persian's foot, 
 You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave ! 
 Rather I hail thee, Parnes, — trust to thy wild waste tract ! 
 Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain ! What matter if slacked 
 My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave 
 No deity deigns to drape with verdure ? — at least I can breathe, 
 Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute ! " 
 
 Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge; 
 Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar 
 Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. 
 Right ! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across : 
 "Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse? 
 Athens to aid ? Tho' the dive were thro' Erebos, thus I obey — 
 Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise ! No bridge 
 Better ! " — when — ha ! what was it I came on, of wonders that are ? 
 
 There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he — majestical Pan ! 
 Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof; 
 All the great God was good in the eyes grave-kindly — the curl 
 Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe. 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 283 
 
 As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. 
 "Halt, Pheidippides ! " — halt I did, my brain of a whirl: 
 "Hither to me ! Why pale in my presence ?" he gracious began: 
 "How is it, — Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof? 
 
 "Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast ! 
 
 Wherefore ? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old ? 
 
 Ay, and still, and forever her friend ! Test Pan, trust me ! 
 
 Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith 
 
 In the temples and tombs ! Go, say to Athens, ' The Goat-God 
 
 saith : 
 When Persia — so much as strews not the soil — is cast in the sea. 
 Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, 
 Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the 
 
 bold!' 
 
 "Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge !'" 
 (Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear 
 — Fennel, — I grasped it a- tremble with dew — whatever it bode), 
 "While, as for thee ..." But enough! He was gone. If I ran 
 
 hitherto — 
 Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. 
 Parnes to Athens — earth no more, the air was my road ; 
 Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge ! 
 Pan for Athens, Pan for me ! I too have a guerdon rare ! 
 
 Then spoke Miltiades. "And thee, best runner of Greece, 
 Whose limbs did duty indeed, — what gift is promised thyself ? 
 Tell it us straightway, — Athens the mother demands of her son !'* 
 Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length 
 His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his 
 
 strength 
 Into the utterance — "Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast done 
 Count on a worthy reward ! Henceforth be allowed thee release 
 From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf ! ' 
 
 "I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind! 
 Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow, — 
 Pound — Pan helping us — Persia to dust, and, under the deep. 
 Whelm her away forever ; and then, — no Athens to save, — 
 
284 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave, — 
 Hie to my house and home : and, when my children shall creep 
 Close to my knees, — recount how the God was aw^ul yet kind. 
 Promised their sire reward to the full — rewarding him — so ! " 
 
 Unforeseeing one ! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day : 
 So, when Persia was dust, all cried *'To Akropolis ! 
 Run, Pheidippides, one race more ! the meed is thy due ! 
 'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout ! " He flung down his shield, 
 Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field 
 And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, 
 Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer !" Like wine thro' clay, 
 Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died — the bliss ! 
 
 So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute 
 Is still "Rejoice!" — his word which brought rejoicing indeed. 
 So is Pheidippides happy forever, — the noble strong man 
 Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved 
 
 so well. 
 He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell 
 Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began. 
 So to end gloriously — once to shout, thereafter be mute : 
 "Athens is saved !" — Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. 
 
 PROSPICE 
 
 Fear death ? — to feel the fog in my throat, 
 
 The mist in my face. 
 When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 
 
 I am nearing the place. 
 The power of the night, the press of the storm. 
 
 The post of the foe. 
 Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form. 
 
 Yet the strong man must go; 
 For the journey is done and the summit attained. 
 
 And the barriers fall. 
 Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, 
 
 The reward of it all. 
 I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 
 
 The best and the last ! 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 285 
 
 I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, 
 
 And bade me creep past. 
 No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, 
 
 The heroes of old, 
 Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 
 
 Of pain, darkness, and cold. 
 ■ For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 
 
 The black minute 's at end. 
 And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave. 
 
 Shall dwindle, shall blend. 
 Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain. 
 
 Then a light, then thy breast. 
 Oh, thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again. 
 
 And with God be the rest ! 
 
 THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT 
 PRAXED'S CHURCH 
 
 (ROME, 15 — .) 
 
 Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity ! 
 
 Draw round my bed : is Anselm keeping back ? 
 
 Nephews — sons mine ... ah God, I know not ! Well — 
 
 She, men would have to be your mother once. 
 
 Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was ! 
 
 What's done is done, and she is dead beside, 
 
 Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since. 
 
 And as she died so must we die ourselves. 
 
 And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. 
 
 Life, how and what is it ? As here I lie 
 
 In this state-chamber, dying by degrees. 
 
 Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask 
 
 *'Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. 
 
 Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; 
 
 And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought 
 
 With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: 
 
 — Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care ; 
 
 Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South 
 
 He graced his carrion with, God curse the same ! 
 
 Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence 
 
 One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side. 
 
 And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, 
 
 And up into the aery dome where live 
 
286 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: 
 
 And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, 
 
 And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest. 
 
 With those nine columns round me, two and two. 
 
 The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: 
 
 Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe 
 
 As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. 
 
 — Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone. 
 Put me where I may look at him ! True peach, 
 Rosy and flawless : how I earned the prize ! 
 Draw close: that conflagration of my church 
 
 — What then ? So much was saved if aught were missed ! 
 My sons, ye would not be my death ? Go dig 
 
 The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, 
 
 Drop water gently till the surface sink. 
 
 And if ye find . . . Ah God, I know not, I ! . . . 
 
 Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft. 
 
 And corded up in a tight olive-frail. 
 
 Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli. 
 
 Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape. 
 
 Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast . . . 
 
 Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all. 
 
 That brave Frascati villa with its bath. 
 
 So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, 
 
 Like God the Father's globe on both his hands 
 
 Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay. 
 
 For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst ! 
 
 Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years : 
 
 Man goeth to the grave, and where is he ? 
 
 Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons ? Black — • 
 
 'Twas ever antique-black I meant ! How else 
 
 Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath ? 
 
 The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me. 
 
 Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance 
 
 Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so. 
 
 The Saviour at his sermon on the mount. 
 
 Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan 
 
 Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off. 
 
 And Moses with the tables . . . but I know 
 
 Ye mark me not ! What do they whisper thee. 
 
 Child of my bowels, Anselm ? Ah, ye hope 
 
 To revel down my villas while I gasp 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 287 
 
 Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine 
 Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at ! 
 Nay, boys, ye love me — all of jasper, then ! 
 'T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve. 
 My bath must needs be left behind, alas ! 
 One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut. 
 There 's plenty jasper somewhere in the world — 
 And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray 
 Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts. 
 And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs ? 
 
 — That 's if ye carve my epitaph aright. 
 Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, 
 No gaudy ware like Gandolf 's second line — 
 Tully, my masters ? Ulpian serves his need ! 
 And then how I shall lie thro' centuries, 
 
 And hear the blessed mutter of the mass. 
 
 And see God made and eaten all day long. 
 
 And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste 
 
 Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke ! 
 
 For as I lie here, hours of the dead night. 
 
 Dying in state and by such slow degrees, 
 
 I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook. 
 
 And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, 
 
 And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop 
 
 Into great laps and folds of sculptor's- work : 
 
 And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts 
 
 Grow, with a certain humming in my ears. 
 
 About the life before I lived this life. 
 
 And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests. 
 
 Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount. 
 
 Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes. 
 
 And new-found agate urns as fresh as day. 
 
 And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, 
 
 — Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend ? 
 No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best ! 
 Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. 
 All lapis, all, sons ! Else I give the Pope 
 My villas ! Will ye ever eat my heart ? 
 Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick. 
 They glitter like your mother's for my soul. 
 Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze. 
 Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase 
 
288 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term, 
 
 And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx 
 
 That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down. 
 
 To comfort me on my entablature 
 
 Whereon I am to lie till I must ask 
 
 "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! 
 
 For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude 
 
 To death — ye wish it — God, ye wish it ! Stone — 
 
 Gritstone, a-crumble ! Clammy squares which sweat 
 
 As if the corpse they keep were oozing through — 
 
 And no more lapis to delight the world ! 
 
 Well, go ! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there. 
 
 But in a row: and, going, turn your backs 
 
 — Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, 
 
 And leave me in my church, the church for peace, 
 
 That I may watch at leisure if he leers — 
 
 Old Gandolf at me, from his onion-stone. 
 
 As still he envied me, so fair she was ! 
 
 SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS 
 
 Plague take all your pedants, say I ! 
 
 He who wrote what I hold in my hand. 
 Centuries back was so good as to die. 
 
 Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land; 
 This, that was a book in its time. 
 
 Printed on paper and bound in leather, 
 Last month in the white of a matin-prime 
 
 Just when the birds sang all together. 
 
 Lito the garden I brought it to read. 
 
 And under the arbute and laurustine 
 Read it, so help me grace in my need. 
 
 From title-page to closing line. 
 Chapter on chapter did I count. 
 
 As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge; 
 Added up the mortal amount; 
 
 And then proceeded to my revenge. 
 
 Yonder 's a plum-tree, with a crevice 
 
 An owl would build in, were he but sage; 
 
 For a lap of moss like a fine pontlevis 
 In a castle of the middle age. 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 289 
 
 Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber; 
 
 Where he'd be private, there might he spend 
 Hours alone in his lady's chamber: 
 
 Into this crevice I dropped our friend. 
 
 Splash went he, as under he ducked, 
 
 — I knew at the bottom rain-drippings stagnate ; 
 Next a handful of blossoms I plucked 
 
 To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate; 
 Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf, 
 
 Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis; 
 Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf 
 
 Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. 
 
 Now, this morning, betwixt the moss 
 
 And gum that locked our friend in limbo, 
 A spider had spun his web across. 
 
 And sate in the midst with arms a-kimbo: 
 So, I took pity, for learning's sake, 
 
 And, de projiindis, accentihus IcbHs, 
 Cantate! quoth I, as I got a rake. 
 
 And up I fished his delectable treatise. 
 
 Here you have it, dry in the sun, 
 
 With all the binding all of a blister. 
 And great blue spots where the ink has run. 
 
 And reddish streaks that wink and glister 
 O'er the page so beautifully yellow — 
 
 Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks ! 
 Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow ? 
 
 Here 's one stuck in his chapter six ! 
 
 How did he like it when the live creatures 
 
 Tickled and toused and browsed him all over. 
 And worm, slug, eft, with serious features. 
 
 Came in, each one, for his right of trover; 
 When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face 
 
 Made of her eggs the stately deposit. 
 And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface 
 
 As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet. 
 
 All that life, and fun, and romping, 
 
 All that frisking, and twisting, and coupling. 
 
 While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping, 
 
 And clasps were cracking, and covers suppling ! 
 
 19 
 
290 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 As if you had carried sour John Knox 
 
 To the play-house at Paris, Vienna, or Munich, 
 
 Fastened him into a front-row box. 
 
 And danced off the Ballet with trousers and tunic. 
 
 Come, old martyr ! What, torment enough is it ? 
 
 Back to my room shall you take your sweet self ! 
 Good-by, mother-beetle; husband-eft, sufficit! 
 
 See the snug niche I have made on my shelf: 
 A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you, 
 
 Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay, 
 And with E. on each side, and F. right over you, 
 
 Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day ! 
 
 ABT VOGLER 
 
 (after he has been extemporizing upon the musical instrument 
 
 OF HIS invention) 
 
 Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build. 
 
 Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, 
 Claiming each slave of the sound at a touch, as when Solomon willed 
 
 Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, 
 Man, brute, reptile, fly, — alien of end and of aim, 
 
 Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed, — 
 Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, 
 
 And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princes he loved ! 
 
 Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine. 
 
 This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise ! 
 Ah, one and all, how they helped would dispart now and now combine, 
 
 Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise ! 
 And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell. 
 
 Burrow awhile, and build broad on the roots of things. 
 Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well. 
 
 Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. 
 
 And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he 
 was; 
 
 Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, 
 Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, 
 
 Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest. 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 291 
 
 For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire. 
 When a great illumination surprises a festal night — 
 
 Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) 
 Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in 
 
 sight. 
 
 In sight ? Not half ! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's 
 birth ; 
 
 Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I; 
 And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the 
 earth. 
 
 As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky: 
 Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine. 
 
 Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star; 
 Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine. 
 
 For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. 
 
 Nay, more : for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow. 
 
 Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast, 
 Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow. 
 
 Lured now to begin and live in a house to their liking at last; 
 Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and 
 gone. 
 But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their 
 new: 
 What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon; 
 And what is — shall I say, matched both ? for I was made per- 
 fect too. 
 
 All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, 
 
 All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth. 
 All through music and me ! For think, had I painted the whole, 
 
 Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder- worth : 
 Had I written the same, made verse, — still, effect proceeds from 
 cause ; 
 
 Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told ; 
 It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws. 
 
 Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled : — 
 
 But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, 
 Existent behind all laws, that made them, and lo, they are ! 
 
 And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man. 
 That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. 
 
292 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Consider it well : each tone of our scale in itself is nought ; 
 
 It is everywhere in the world — loud, soft, and all is said : 
 Give it to me to use ! I mix it with two in my thought : 
 
 And, there ! Ye have heard and seen : consider and bow the head ! 
 
 Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared ; 
 
 Gone ! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow ; 
 For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared. 
 
 That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. 
 Never to be again ! But many more of the kind 
 
 As good, nay, better perchance : is this your comfort to me ? 
 To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind 
 
 To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, 
 shall be. 
 
 Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name ? 
 
 Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands ! 
 What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same ? 
 
 Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands ? 
 There shall never be one lost good ! What was, shall live as before ; 
 
 The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; 
 What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more : 
 
 On earth the broken arcs ; in the heaven, a perfect round. 
 
 All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist, — 
 
 Not its semblance, but itself ; no beauty, nor good, nor power 
 Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist 
 
 When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. 
 The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, 
 
 The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky. 
 Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; 
 
 Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by-and-by. 
 
 And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence 
 
 For the fulness of the days ? Have we withered or agonized ? 
 Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue 
 thence ? 
 
 Why rushed the discords in but that harmony should be prized ? 
 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 mav reason and welcome: 't is we musicians know. 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 293 
 
 Well, it is earth with me ; silence resumes her reign : 
 
 I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. 
 Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, 
 
 Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor, — yes, 
 And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground. 
 
 Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep; 
 Which, hark ! I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, 
 
 The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep. 
 
 SAUL 
 
 Said Abner, **At last thou art come ! Ere I tell, ere thou speak. 
 Kiss my cheek, wish me well !" Then I wished it, and did kiss his 
 
 cheek. 
 And he, "Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent. 
 Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent 
 Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, 
 Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. 
 For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days. 
 Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer or of praise. 
 To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife. 
 And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. 
 
 " Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved ! God's child, with his dew 
 On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue 
 Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat 
 Were now raging to torture the desert!" 
 
 Then I, as was meet. 
 Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet. 
 And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped ; 
 I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped; 
 Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone. 
 That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on 
 Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed, 
 And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid. 
 But spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!" And no voice replied. 
 At the first I saw nought but the blackness ; but soon I descried 
 A something more black than the blackness — the vast, the upright 
 Main prop which sustains the pavilion : and slow into sight 
 Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all ; — 
 Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent-roof, — showed Saul. 
 
294 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 He stood as erect as that tent-prop ; both arms stretched out wide 
 On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side : 
 He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there, — as, caught in his pangs 
 And waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs, 
 Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come 
 With the spring-time, — so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and 
 dumb. 
 
 Then I tuned my harp, — took off the lilies we twine round its chords 
 Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide — those sunbeams 
 
 like swords ! 
 And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one. 
 So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. 
 They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed 
 Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed ; 
 And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star 
 Into eve and the blue far above us, — so blue and so far ! 
 
 — Then the tune for which quails on the cornland will each leave 
 
 his mate 
 To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate, 
 Till for boldness they fight one another: and then, what has weight 
 To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house — 
 There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse ! — 
 God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, 
 To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. 
 
 Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when 
 
 hand 
 Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts 
 
 expand 
 And grow one in the sense of this world's life. — And then, the last 
 
 song 
 When the dead man is praised on his journey — "Bear, bear him 
 
 along 
 With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets ! Are balm-seeds not 
 
 here 
 To console us ? The land has none left such as he on the bier. 
 Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother ! " — And then, the glad 
 
 chaunt 
 Of the marriage, — first go the young maidens, next, she whom we 
 
 vaunt 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 295 
 
 As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling. — And then, the great 
 
 march 
 Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch 
 Nought can break ; who shall harm them, our friends ? — Then, the 
 
 chorus intoned 
 As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. 
 But I stopped here — for here in the darkness, Saul groaned. 
 
 And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart ; 
 And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered, — and sparkles 'gan 
 
 dart 
 From the jewels that woke in his turban at once with a start — 
 All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. 
 So the head — but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. 
 And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked. 
 As I sang, — 
 
 "Oh, our manhood's primb vigor ! No spirit feels waste, 
 Not a muscle is stopped in its playing, nor sinew unbraced. 
 Oh, the wild joys of living ! the leaping from rock up to rock — 
 The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree, — the cool silver 
 
 shock 
 Of the plunge in a pool's living water, — the hunt of the bear. 
 And the sultriness showing the lion is crouched in his lair. 
 And the meal, the rich dates, yellowed over with gold dust divine. 
 And the locust's-flesh steeped in the pitcher; the full draught of 
 
 wine. 
 And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell 
 That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. 
 How good is man's life, the mere living ! how fit to employ 
 All the heart and the soul and the senses, forever in joy ! 
 Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou 
 
 didst guard 
 When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward ? 
 Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung 
 The low song of the nearly-departed, and hear her faint tongue 
 Joining in while it could to the witness, ' Let one more attest, 
 I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, and all was for 
 
 best ' ? 
 Then they sung thro' their tears in strong triumph, not much, — but 
 
 the rest. 
 And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew 
 
296 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Such result as from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true ! 
 And the friends of thy boyhood — that boyhood of wonder and hope, 
 Present promise, and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope, — 
 Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch ; a people is thine ; 
 And all gifts which the world offers singly, on one head combine ! 
 On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage, like the 
 
 throe 
 That, a- work in the rock, helps its labor, and lets the gold go: 
 High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them, 
 
 — aU 
 Brought to blaze on the head of one creature — King Saul ! " 
 
 And lo, with that leap of my spirit, heart, hand, harp, and voice. 
 Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice 
 Saul's fame in the light it was made for — as when, dare I say, 
 The Lord's army in rapture of service, strains through its array, 
 And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot — "Saul ! " cried I and stopped. 
 And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung 
 
 propped 
 By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name. 
 Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim. 
 And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held, (he alone, 
 While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of 
 
 stone 
 A year's snow bound about for a breastplate, — leaves grasp of the 
 
 sheet ? 
 Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet. 
 And there fronts you, stark, black but alive yet, your mountain of 
 
 old. 
 With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold — 
 Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar 
 Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest — all hail, there they 
 
 are ! 
 Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest 
 Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest 
 For their food in the ardors of summer ! One long shudder thrilled 
 All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled. 
 At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. 
 What was gone, what remained ? All to traverse 'twixt hope and 
 
 despair — 
 Death was past, life not come — so he waited. Awhile his right 
 
 hand 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 297 
 
 Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remand 
 To their place what new objects should enter : 't was Saul as before. 
 I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more 
 Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore 
 At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean — a sun's slow decline 
 Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine 
 Base with base to knit strength more intense : so, arm folded arm 
 O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. 
 
 What spell or what charm, 
 (For, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should I urge 
 To sustain him where song had restored him ? — Song filled to the 
 
 verge 
 His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields 
 Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty ! Beyond on what 
 
 fields, 
 Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye 
 And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by ? 
 He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not — he lets me praise life, 
 Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. 
 
 Then fancies grew rife 
 Which had come long ago on the pastures, when round me the sheep 
 Fed in silence — above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep. 
 And I lay in my hollow, and mused on the world that might lie 
 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky : 
 And I laughed — "Since my days are ordained to be passed with my 
 
 flocks. 
 Let me people at least with my fancies, the plains and the rocks. 
 Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show 
 Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know ! 
 Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, 
 And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now these 
 
 old trains 
 Of vague thought came again ; I grew surer ; so once more the string 
 Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus — 
 
 "Yea, my king," 
 I began — "thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring 
 From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute : 
 In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. 
 Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree, — how its stem trembled 
 first 
 
298 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburst 
 The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in 
 
 turn 
 Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect; yet more was to 
 
 learn, 
 E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall 
 
 we slight, 
 When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow ? or care for the plight 
 Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them ? Not so ! 
 
 stem and branch 
 Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall 
 
 stanch 
 Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. 
 Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for ! the spirit be thine ! 
 By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy 
 More indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy. 
 Crush that life, and behold its wine running ! each deed thou hast 
 
 done 
 Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sun 
 Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tem- 
 pests efface, 
 Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace 
 The results of his past summer-prime, — so, each ray of thy will. 
 Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill 
 Thy whole people the countless, with ardor, till they too give forth 
 A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the south and the north 
 With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past. 
 But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last. 
 As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, 
 So with man — so his power and his beauty forever take flight. 
 No ! again a long draught of my soul- wine ! look forth o'er the 
 
 years — 
 Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual ; begin with the seer's ! 
 Is Saul dead ? in the depth of the vale make his tomb — bid arise 
 A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till built to the skies. 
 Let it mark where the Great First King slumbers — whose fame 
 
 would ye know ? 
 Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go 
 In great characters cut by the scribe, — Such was Saul, so he did ; 
 With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid, — 
 For not half, they'U affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to 
 
 amend. 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 299 
 
 In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend 
 (See, in tablets 't is level before them) their praise, and record 
 With the gold of the graver, Saul's story, — the statesman's great 
 
 word 
 Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river's awave 
 With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet winds 
 
 rave : 
 So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part 
 In thy being ! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art." 
 
 And behold while I sang . . . But O Thou who didst grant me that 
 
 day, 
 And before it not seldom hast granted thy help to essay. 
 Carry on and complete an adventure, — my Shield and my Sword 
 In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word, — 
 Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavor 
 And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever 
 On the new stretch of Heaven above me — till, Mighty to save. 
 Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance — God's throne from 
 
 man's grave ! 
 Let me tell out my tale to its ending — my voice to my heart. 
 Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part. 
 As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, 
 And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep ! 
 For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves 
 The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves 
 Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. 
 
 I say then, — my song 
 While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strong 
 Made a proffer of good to console him — he slowly resumed 
 His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumed 
 His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes 
 Of his turban, and see — the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, 
 He wipes off with the robe ; and he girds now his loins as of yore. 
 And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. 
 He is Saul, ye remember in glory, — ere error had bent 
 The broad brow from the daily communion ; and still, though much 
 
 spent 
 Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose, 
 To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. 
 So sank he along by the tent-prop, till, stayed by the pile 
 
300 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there a while, 
 And so sat out my singing, — one arm round the tent-prop, to raise 
 His bent head, and the other hung slack — till I touched on the 
 
 praise 
 I foresaw from all men in all times, to the man patient there. 
 And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware 
 That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees ■ 
 Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak-roots which 
 
 please 
 To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know 
 If the best I could do had brought solace : he spoke not, but slow 
 Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care 
 Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow; thro' my hair 
 The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind 
 
 power — 
 All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower. 
 Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine — 
 And oh, all my heart how it loved him ! but where was the sign ? 
 I yearned — "Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, 
 I would add to that life of the past, both the future and this. 
 I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence, 
 As this moment, — had love but the warrant, love's heart to 
 
 dispense .' " 
 
 Then the truth came upon me. No harp more — no song more ! 
 outbroke — 
 
 "I have gone the whole round of Creation : I saw and I spoke ! 
 
 I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain 
 
 And pronounced on the rest of his handwork — returned him again 
 
 His creation's approval or censure : I spoke as I saw. 
 
 I report, as a man may of God's work — all 's love, yet all 's law ! 
 
 Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked 
 
 To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dew-drop was asked. 
 
 Have I knowledge ? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. 
 
 Have I forethought ? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite care ! 
 
 Do I task any faculty highest, to image success ? 
 
 I but open my eyes, — and perfection, no more and no less. 
 
 In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God 
 
 In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. 
 
 And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew 
 
 (With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 301 
 
 The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's All-Complete, 
 
 As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet ! 
 
 Yet with all this abounding experience, this Deity known, 
 
 I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. 
 
 There's one faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, 
 
 I am fain to keep still in abeyance (I laugh as I think) 
 
 Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst 
 
 E'en the Giver in one gift. — Behold ! I could love if I durst ! 
 
 But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake 
 
 God's own speed in the one way of love : I abstain, for love's sake ! 
 
 — What, my soul ? see thus far and no farther ? when doors great 
 
 and small, 
 Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal ? 
 In the least things, have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all ? 
 Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift. 
 That I doubt his own love can compete with it? here, the parts 
 
 shift? 
 Here, the creature surpass the Creator, the end, what Began ? — 
 Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man. 
 And dare doubt He alone shall not help him, who yet alone can ? 
 Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, 
 To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower 
 Of the life he was gifted and filled with ? to make such a soul. 
 Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole ? 
 And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tearg attest) 
 These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best ? 
 Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height 
 This perfection, — succeed with life's day-spring, death's minute of 
 
 night ? 
 Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul, the mistake, 
 Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now, — and bid him awake 
 From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set 
 Clear and safe in new light and new life, — a new harmony yet 
 To be run and continued, and ended — who knows ? — or endure ! 
 The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure. 
 By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, 
 And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggle in this. 
 
 "I believe it! 't is Thou, God, that givest, 't is I who receive: 
 In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. 
 All 's one gift : thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer 
 As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. 
 
302 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue 
 
 From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth : 
 / will ? — the mere atoms despise me ! Why am I not loath 
 To look that, even that in the face too ? Why is it I dare 
 Think but lightly of such impuissance ? what stops my despair ? 
 This ; — 't is not what man Does which exalts him, but what man 
 
 Would do? 
 See the king — I would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through. 
 Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich. 
 To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would — knowing which, 
 I know that my service is perfect. — Oh, speak through me now ! 
 Would I suffer for him that I love .? So wouldst Thou — so wilt 
 
 Thou! 
 So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost Crown — 
 And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down 
 One spot for the creature to stand in ! It is by no breath, 
 Turn of eye, wave of hand, that Salvation joins issue with death ! 
 As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved 
 Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved ! 
 He who did most, shall bear most ; the strongest shall stand the most 
 
 weak. 
 'T is the weakness in strength that I cry for ! my flesh, that I seek 
 In the Godhead ! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be 
 A Face like my face that receives thee : a Man like to me, 
 Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever ! a Hand like this hand 
 Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee ! See the Christ stand ! " 
 
 I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. 
 There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, 
 Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive — the aware — 
 I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there. 
 As a runner beset by the populace famished for news — 
 Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her 
 
 crews ; 
 And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot 
 Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge : but I fainted not. 
 For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported — suppressed 
 All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest. 
 Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. 
 Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth — 
 Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth ; 
 In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills; 
 In the shuddering forests' new awe; in the sudden wind- thrills ; 
 
Typical Monologues from Browning 303 
 
 In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still 
 Tho' averted, in wonder and dread; and the birds stiff and chill 
 That rose heavily, as I approached them, made stupid with awe. 
 E'en the serpent that slid away silent, — he felt the new Law. 
 The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers; 
 The same worked in the heart of the cedar, and moved the vine- 
 bowers. 
 And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low, 
 With their obstinate, all but hushed voices — " E'en so, it is so ! '* 
 
INDEX 
 
 Titles of complete monologues are printed in Italics ; authors of these in small 
 CAPITALS ; subjects of lessons are printed in CAPITALS ; ordinary topics in Roman. 
 
 Abrupt beginning, cause of Browning's 
 
 obscurity, 81 
 Abt Vogler, 290; theme in, 88-89 
 ACTION, 172-195 
 
 importance at opening, 172-173 
 
 precedence of, 173 
 
 significance of, in a monologue, 174 
 
 in Italian in England, 174 
 
 in Mrs. Caudle, 174 
 
 in Up at a Villa, 174-175 
 
 in A Tale, 175-176 
 
 caused by change in thinking and feel- 
 ing, 175-176 
 
 by struggle for idea, 176 
 
 in quotations, 177-178 
 
 transitions and, 178 
 
 pivotal, shows attention and politeness, 
 181-186 
 
 locations of objects, 182-183 
 
 monologue must not be declaimed, 183 
 
 descriptive and manifestative, 187-189 
 
 in Old Boggs' Slamt, Day, 188 
 
 in Vagabonds, Trowbridge, 190-193 
 
 dangers of, 194 
 
 attitude, importance of, 195 
 Andrea del Sarto, 265 
 Appearances, 265 
 
 ARGUMENT OF MONOLOGUE, 8&- 
 100 
 
 Illustrated by A Death in the Desert, 
 89 
 
 Illustrated by Bishop orders his Tomb, 
 91-94 (Poem, 285) 
 
 Illustrated by Memorabilia, 160-162 
 Art, function of, 7 
 
 dramatic, important, 11 
 
 forms of, not mvented, necessary, 11-12 
 
 Browning on, 40 
 
 indirect, 63 
 
 composed of few elements, 87-88 
 
 theme of, 110 
 
 social, 258 
 At the Mermaid, 73-74 
 
 extract from, 74 
 Attention, key to dramatic, 181 
 
 shown by pivotal action, 182-186 
 Attitude, importance of, 195 
 
 Barrack-Room Ballads are monologues, 
 
 128 
 Before Sedan, Dobson, 84 
 Biglow Papers are monologues, 19 
 Bishop Blougram's Apology, listener in, 
 
 41-42 
 Bishop orders his Tomb, 285 
 listener in, 63 
 dramatic argument of, 91-94 
 
 BODY, ACTIONS OF MIND AND, 172- 
 
 195 
 Bret Harte's, In a Tunnel, 173 
 Bridge of Sighs, Hood, 209 
 
 metre of, 211 
 Browning 
 
 Patriot, The, 3 
 
 Woman's Last Word, A, Q 
 
 Confessions, 7 
 
 Youth and Art, 21 
 
 Incident of the French Camp, 33 
 
 Rabbi Ben Ezra, 36 
 
 Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 58 
 
 Up at a Villa — Down in the City, 65 
 
 A Grammarian's Funeral, 72 
 
 At the Mermaid, 74 
 
 My Last Duchess, 96 
 
 Lost Mistress, 106 
 
 Tray, 143 
 
 One Way of Love, 150 
 
 Italian in England, 152 
 
 Wanting is — Whatf 157 — 
 
 Memorabilia, 160 
 
 A Tale, 164 
 
 In a Year, 201 
 
 Lost Leader, 212 
 
 Evelyn Hope, 216 
 
 Appearances, 265 
 
 Andrea del Sarto, 265 
 
 Muleykeh, 272 
 
 Count Gismond, 275 
 
 By the Fireside, 277 
 
 Pheidippides, 281 ^^ 
 
 Prospice, 284 --'^ 
 
 Bishop orders his Tomb, 285 
 
 Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis, 288 
 
 Abt Vogler, 290 
 
 Saul, 293 — 
 
 Why not appreciated, 1-2 
 
 Invented monologue, 1-2 
 
 his art form, 7 
 
 dramatic, 9-10 
 
 compared with Leigh Hunt, 25-26 
 
 influence of, 48 
 
 compared with Tennyson, 52 
 
 compared with Shakespeare, 55-61 
 soliloquies are monologues, 58-61 
 
 obscurity of, 71-81 
 
 master of monologue, 131-132 
 
 grotesque, element in, 229 
 
 variety of his themes, 263-264 
 Burns, monologues in, 117-120 
 
 O wert thou in the cauld blast, 118 
 By the Fireside, 277 
 
 Caliban upon Setebos, character of, 24 
 speaker in, 24 
 
 20 
 
3o6 
 
 Index 
 
 Caudle, Mrs., On (he Umbrella, 139 
 Character of speaker must be realized, 
 
 138 
 Chesterton, on personal element in 
 story-telling, 86 
 on Clive and Muldykeh, 125 
 justifies Browning's grotesque lan- 
 guage, 229 
 Churchill, J. W., rendering of Sam 
 
 Lawson, 16 
 Cleon, monologue or letter, 18 
 Clive, illustrates person spoken of, 54 
 
 why a monologue, 126 
 Confessions, 7 
 Connection, importance of first words to 
 
 the, 79-80 
 Consistency, law of, 235-237 
 Conversation, elements of, 159 
 Count Gismond, 275 
 
 speaker in, 16 
 CtrsHMAN, Charlotte, her rendering of 
 monologue, 236-237 
 
 Definition of monologue, 7 
 Delivery 
 
 nature of, 134 
 
 important in monologue, 133-136 
 
 three languages in, complementary, 
 135-136 
 DIALECT, 222-230 
 
 must be dramatic, 222-223 
 
 in Riley, Burns, Tennyson, 223 
 
 not literal, 224-225 
 
 dramatic, 225-226 
 
 results from assimilation, 227 
 
 must express character, 228-229 
 
 part of grotesque, 229-230 
 Did n't know Flynn, Bret Harte, 173 
 Dieudonne, Dr. Drummond, 225 
 DoBSON, Austin, 
 
 Before Sedan, 84 
 
 change of situation in, 84-86 
 Dooley monologues, 42 
 
 Hennessey in, 42-43 
 Dowden, Edward, on static dramatic, 
 110-111 
 
 on Mulil^ykeh, 111 
 Dramatic art, important, 11 
 Dramatic instinct, overlooked, 31 
 
 necessary in human life, 30 
 
 listener m, 31 
 
 definition of, 103-104 
 
 illustrated by, 103-113 
 
 static dramatic, 110-111 
 
 nature of, 111-112 
 
 interprets odd moments, 156 
 Drayton, Michael 
 
 Come, let us kiss and part, 116 
 Drummond, Dr. 
 
 French Canadian dialect, 129 
 
 Dieudonni, 225 
 Duchess, My Last, 96 
 
 Epic spirit, nature of, 102 
 
 in Tennyson's Ulysses, 102-103, 123 
 
 in Sir Galahad, 124 
 Evelyn Hope, 216 
 Expression, vocal, necessity of, 133-146 
 
 nature of, in the monologue, 147-172 
 
 FAULTS IN RENDERING A MONO- 
 LOGUE, 241-247 
 
 staginess, 241 
 
 monotony, cause of, 241-242 
 
 tameness, 242 
 
 declamation, 242-243 
 
 indefiniteness, 243 
 
 exaggeration, 244 
 
 cause of, false, 244-246 
 Field, Eugene, Monologues in, 44 
 Fireside, By the, 277 
 Flexibility 
 
 illustrated by A Tale, 164 
 Flight of the Duchess, as illustration of 
 
 monologue. 108-109 
 FORM OF LITERATURE, THE MON- 
 OLOGUE AS A, 100-115 
 
 not invented, 11-12, 100-101 
 
 Monologue, one, 100-113 
 Foss, Sam Walter, monologues by, 48 
 Fra Lippo Lippi, connection in, 81-83 
 Freytag's definition of drama, 103-104 
 
 Grammarian's Funeral, A, situation in, 
 
 72-73 
 Grigsby's Station, a monologue, 47 
 Grotesque, nature of, 226 
 
 dramatic, importance of, 30-31 
 
 illustrations of, 33-39 
 
 HEARER, THE. 30-64 
 
 implied in dramatic art, 30-31 
 in monologue, necessary, 32 
 illustrated by Rabbi Ben Ezra. 36 
 in Bishop Blougram, 41-42 
 by Dooley and Hennessey, 43 
 in Riley's Nothin' to Say, 46-47 
 in Tennyson's Lady Clara, 50 ..— - — ' 
 Herv^ Riel, metre in, 203 -^ 
 Higginson, Col. T. W., story of Carlyle,226 
 HISTORY OF THE MONOLOGUE, 
 113-132 
 in early literature, 113-116 
 in Burns, 117-118 
 Hood, Thomas, Bridge of Sighs, 209 
 Hunt, Leigh, Browning's method difi'ers 
 from, 25-26 
 
 Imitation, danger of, in High Tide, 171 
 IMPORTANCE OF MONOLOGUE, 
 
 248-264 
 illustrated by Saul, 248-252; by Job, 
 
 253 
 by Ninetieth Psalm, 253-254; by 
 
 Prophets. 255 
 has eclucational value, 255 
 speakers, 255-256 
 proves necessity of voice to literature, 
 
 256. 
 gives new course in speaking, 256; 
 
 illustration, 257 . 
 
 prevents students of art from being 
 
 mechanical, 258 
 shows necessity of art, 261 
 of any length or theme, 262 
 requires an artist. 263 
 requires no expensive scenery, 262 
 has limitations, 262 
 its range, 264 
 
Index 
 
 307 
 
 In a Tunnel, Bret Harte, 173 
 In a Year, 201 
 
 Incident of the French Camp, 33 
 Inflection, function of, 151 
 
 importance of, 149-150, 157 
 Interpreter of monologue must command 
 
 natural languages, 136 
 Interpretation of monologue difficult, 139 
 
 necessary, 133 
 
 unites three languages, 135 
 
 must be dramatic, 138-142 
 Italian in England, The, 152 
 
 Jerrold, Douglas, situation in his mono- 
 logues, 75 
 on Sordello, 1 
 
 Mrs. Caudle and the Umbrella, 139 
 its spirit, 141-143 
 John Anderson, my Jo, Burns, 62 
 
 Kipling, dramatic spirit in, 127-129 
 Mandalay lyric or monologue, 128-129 
 dialect of results from dramatic spirit, 
 228 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Tennyson, 50 
 
 Language, threefold, 135-138 
 
 La Saisiaz, situation of, 78 
 
 Last Ride Together, 205 
 
 Letters and monologues compared, 17-18 
 
 LITERARY FORM, A NEW, 1-12 
 
 not invented, 100 
 
 monologue, as a, 100-113 
 
 monologue, a true, 124, 25D-264 
 LITERATURE, THE MONOLOGUE 
 AS A FORM OF, 100-113 
 
 implies unprinted elements, 133-134 
 
 suggests life, 135-136 
 Lost Leader, The, 212 
 Lost Mistress, The, 106 
 Lyric, nature of, 14 
 
 compared with monologue, 14-15 
 
 Macbeth, story of, compared to mono- 
 logue, 105-107 
 Memorabilia, 160 
 
 illustrates vocal expression of mono- 
 logue, 161-162 
 Mental actions modulate voice, 147-172 
 Mermaid, At the, passage from, 73-74 
 METRE AND THE MONOLOGUE, 
 195-222 
 mistakes regarding, 195 
 appreciation of, 196 
 part of vocal expression, 198-197 
 meaning of, 196, 204-205 
 relation to length of line, 198-199 
 
 in Woman's Last Word and In a 
 Year, 201 
 study of. 213 
 Mistress, The Lost, 106 
 Mitchell, D. G., on letters, 17 
 Modulations of voice, 147-172 
 Monologue contrasted with the play, 105- 
 109 
 "Invention" of Browning, 2 
 One end of conversation, 7 
 study of, centres in, 10 
 speaker in, 12-30, 41-43 
 dramatic, 32 
 
 person spoken of, in, 64-55 
 
 compared with soliloquy, 55-61 
 
 situation in, 64-78 
 
 connection, 78-86 
 
 argument of, 86-94 
 
 as literary form, 100-113 
 
 compared with play. 105-109 
 
 before Browning. 113 
 
 common in English poetry, 113-132 
 
 common in modern literature, 127-132 
 
 needs delivery, 133-146 
 
 vocal expression of, 147-172 
 
 rhythm of thinking in, 148 ~" 
 
 action in, 172-195 
 
 metre in. 195-222 
 
 dialect in, 222-229 
 
 use of properties, 231-240 
 
 faults in rendering, 241-246 
 
 IMPORTANCE OF, 248-264 
 Movement illustrated by High Tide, 168- 
 
 171 
 Mrs. Jim, a series of monologues, 130 
 Mulcykeh, 272 
 
 Chesterton on, 125 
 
 as a monologue, 125-126 
 My Last Duchess, 96 
 
 illustrates elements of monologue, 
 96-99 
 
 Natural languages, function of, 134-137 
 Nothin' to Say, Riley, 46 
 
 Obscurity, chief cause of Browning's, 81 
 Old Boggs' Slarnt, Day, 188 
 One Way of Love, 150 
 Oratory and acting compared, 13, 179- 
 181 
 Jefferson on, 179-180 
 
 Palgrave on Sally in our Alley, 120-122 
 Patriot, The, 3 
 Pause, Importance of, 149 
 Personal element in art, Chesterton on, 
 86 
 
 found in all conversation and expres- 
 sion, 81-88 
 Pheidippides, 281 
 Play, a monologue, 10-12 
 Poetry, Aristotle on, 128 
 
 dramatic, not invented, 100 
 
 epic, 122-123 
 PROPERTIES, 230-247 
 
 use of, in play and monologue, 230-231 
 
 significance of, 230-231 
 
 need of generalizing, 232 
 
 Irving, Sir Henry, scenery in unity, 
 233 
 
 consistency in, 235 
 
 use of scenery, 236-240 
 
 must not be literal, 237 
 
 when dramatic, 238-240 
 Prospice, 284 
 
 metre of, 209 
 Psalm Ninetieth, 253 
 
 a monologue, 253-255 
 
 Rabbi Ben Ezra, 36 
 Rendering of monologues, 236-237 
 RENDITION, NECESSITY OF, 133- 
 147 
 
3o8 
 
 Index 
 
 Rhythm, first element in interpretation, 
 
 148 
 Riley, James "Whitcomb, Hoosier mon- 
 ologue, 129-131 
 
 Knee-deep in June, a monologue, 45 
 
 situation in, 53 
 
 Nothin' to Say, 46 
 Ring and the Book, The, 
 
 proves value of monologue, 26-29 
 
 extract from, on art, 40 
 
 Sally in our Alley, Carey, 120 
 Sam Lawson, stories of, Mrs. Stowe, 
 monologues, 16 
 illustrates nature of monologue, 248- 
 252 
 Saul, 293 
 
 Shakespeare compared with Browning, 
 112 
 his soliloquies compared to mono- 
 logues, 55-57 
 Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis, 288 
 SITUATION, PLACE AND, 64-78 
 dramatic, 64 
 monologue implies, 65 
 Up at a Villa — Down in the City, 65 
 in Browning, always definite, 71-72 
 changes in Grammarian's Funeral, 72 
 in Douglas Jerrold, 75 
 Andrea del Sarto (Poem, 265) 
 Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister, 58 
 soliloquy compared with monologue, 
 
 56-57 
 Shakespeare's, 55 
 
 difiference between Browning and 
 Shakespeare, 57-61 
 SPEAKER, THE, in monologue, 12-30 
 speech and monologue compared, 
 101-102 
 
 Suckling, Sir John, Why so pale and 
 wan, 116 
 
 Tale, A, 163 
 
 Tennyson's Lady Clara Vere de Verc, 60 
 
 a monologue, 52 
 
 many monologues, 49 
 
 not master of, 53 
 TIME AND CONNECTION, 78-86 
 
 abrupt beginn-ng, 79-80 
 
 tone-color explained, 157-160 
 Tray, 143 
 
 Up at a Villa — Down in the City, 65 
 
 Vagabonds, The, Trowbridge, 190 
 Vocal Expression 
 
 nature of, 134 
 
 reveals processes of mind, 147-172 
 
 unprintable, 136 
 
 in play and monologue, 167-168 
 VOICE, ACTIONS OF MIND AND, 
 147-172 
 
 Wanting is — What? 157 
 
 Whitman, dramatic element in his "O 
 
 Captain," 120 
 Why so pale and wan, Suckling, 116 
 Woman's Last Word, A, 6 
 Words complemented by tone and action, 
 
 135 
 Wyatt, Sir Thomas, The Lover's Appeal, 
 lyric in form of monologue, 114 
 
 Youth and Art, 21 
 metre of, 216 
 
 The University Press, Cambridge, U. S. A. 
 
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