Browning and His Century

ompared with the other great poets of the nineteenth century, it will be

is by no means simple in its nature, but as a musical sound is composed of vibrations within vibrations, so it is made up of the complex relations of body and spirit-the mere exte

the mysterious first poet who supplied plots to the rest of mankind. Conjecture is obliged to play a part here, as it does wherever human origins are in question. Doubtless, this first poet was no separate individual, but simply the elements man and nature, through whose action and rea

ver much he may be indebted for his inspiration to past products of this universal law of action and reaction, he is

er and becomes in very truth the poet or maker, to that extent at least w

redistribut

art: length

ly what

firmly after

traced in he

me grows fir

th and e

of ideas alone, among which his imagination plays in absolute freedom; he throws over the results of man's pa

been no suggestions as to subject-matter are rare in comparison wi

w he ransacked French, Italian and Latin literature for his subj

de feldys

s newe corn fr

olde books

s new science

m of the blissful immortal life that is in store for those who have served their country, points out to him the brilliant celestial fires, and how insignificant the earth is in comparison with them, and opens his ears to the wondrous harmony of the spheres-this dream is as far removed from the main argument of the poem as anything well could be a contest between three falcons for the hand of a formel. The bringing together of such diverse elements prese

Nature and the "Fowls" are introduced and described, and at last the point is reached. Nature proclaims that it is St. Valentine's day, and all the fowls may choose them mates. The royal falcon is given first choice, and chooses the lovely formel that sits upon Nature's hand. Two other ardent falcons

s, is one of the few examples in Chaucer of subject-matter derived direct from a real event, but the putting of it in an allego

lifelike are they that in them he has made the England of the fourteenth century live again. But how small a proportion of the bulk of the "Canterbury Tales" is contained in these glimpses of

e magic of the East, the love tales of Italy, the wisdom of philosophers, the common stories of the people, all give up their wealth to his gentle touch. With a keen sense of propriety he, with few exceptions, gives each one of his pilgrims a tale suite

he critic. As a scholar he brings in learned allusions that are entirely extraneous to the action in hand; as the story-teller, he takes delight in the tales that both the poet and the people have told; as the poet, his imagination dresses up a story with a fresh environment, often anachronous, and sometimes he alters the moral tone of the characters. Cressida is an interesting example of this. But instead of the characters suggesting by their own action and speech all the needed moral, Chaucer himself appears ever at hand to analyze and criticise and mora

use of them. Although his range of observation is much narrower than Chaucer's, hardly extending at all into the realm o

s inspirations were drawn in most cases directly from the fountain-head of story in the Greek writers-instead of as they filtered through the Latin, Italian, and French, with the inevitable accretions that result f

f the survivals everywhere evident of solar characteristics in his characters and plots. Indeed it could hardly be otherwise, considering his intention, and his method of carryi

governor and a virtuous man, the one in his 'Iliad,' the other in his 'Odyssey'; then Virgil, whose like intention was to do in the person of ?neas: After him, Ariosto comprised them both in his Orlando, and lately Tasso dissevered them again, and formed both parts in two persons, the part which they in Philosophy call Ethice or vi

age with a beautiful maiden and parting from the bride to engage in new quests, an enchantress who turns men into animals, even the outcast child; but none of the incidents appear intact. It is as if there had been a great explosion in the ancient land of romance and that in the mending up of things the separate pieces are all recognizable,

ed supremely in the personalities of men and women, portraying the real, and Spenser, aristocratic, interested in imaging forth an ideal of manhood, choosing his subject-matter from sources th

ry forward the dramatic motif which he infused into his subject. The dramatic form in which he wrote furnished him a better medium for reaching a complete welding together of the external and spiritual side of his subject-matter. Where Chaucer hinted at the possibiliti

after a pattern of his own to fit his allegorical situation, but keeps the events of his stories almost unchanged, in this particular resembling Chaucer and Shakespeare, and-except in a few instances, such as Tithonus and Lucretius, where the classic spirit of the originals is preserved-he infuses in his subject a vein of philosophy, illustrating those modern tendencies of English thought of which Tennyson, himself, was the exemplar. Even when inventing subjects, founded

e five centuries. With Chaucer's keen interest in human nature deepened to a profound insight into the very soul of humanity, and the added wealth of these centuries of

nd thirty portraits of this nature in his work, chosen from all sorts and conditions of men-men who stand for some phase of growth in human thought; and always in developing a personality he gives the kernel of truth upon which their peculiar point of view is based. Thus, among the musical poems, Abt Vogler speaks for the intuitionalist-he who is blessed by a glimpse of the absolute truth. Charles Avison, o

ironment, thus giving at one stroke the spirit of the time and the individual qualities of special representatives of the time. Examples of this are: "My Last Duchess," where the Duke is an entirely imaginary person and the particular incident is invented, but he is made to act and t

he defence of some course of action or ethical standard that may or may not be founded upon the highest ideals.

detail, but how adequate his art was to such ends, "The Ring and the Book," "Inn Album," "Two Poets of Croisic," "Red Cotton Nightcap Country,

dulterated fancy. "A Blot in the 'Scutcheon," "In a Balcony," "Colombe's Birthday," "Childe Roland," "James Lee's Wife" are some of them. Even in this rapid survey of the field the fact is patent that Browning's range of subject-matter is infinitely wider and his method of developing it far more varied than has been that of

ial interest to those poems in which he chose classical themes for his subjects. There are not more than ten all told, and one of these is a translation, yet they repres

t goddess had brought about his resuscitation. It has been suggested by Mr. Boynton in an interesting paper that Browning shows traces of the influence of Landor in his poetry. This fragment certainly furnishes argument for this opinion, though it

the poem would have stood unique in his work as a true survival of Greek subject wedded with classical form and style, and would certainly have challenged comparison with the best work

Greek life to our ken with wonderful distinctness, but doing it according to his own accustomed poetical methods, or, as

through the imaginary "Cleon," in which is found the sublimated essence of Greek philosophical thought at the time of Christ-thought, weary of law and beauty, longing for a fresh inspiration, knowing not what, and unable to perceive it in the

ude toward the literary war between Euripides and Aristophanes. So different are Browning's Greek poems from all other poems upon classical subjects that it will b

across the centuries to men of the type of Morris or Matthew Arnold. He is the latest child of his own time, the heir of all the ages during which Greece had developed its ?sthetic perfection, discovered the inadequacy of its established religion, come through its philosophers and poets to a perception of the immorta

ole poem. She was a Rhodian, else her freedom of action and speech might seem too modern, but among the islands of Greece, at least at the time of Euripides, there still survived that attitude toward woman which we see reflected in the Homeri

ipi

goodness and badness as Euripides, yet he has been called a woman-hater-because some of his men have railed against women-but one Alkestis is enough to offset any dramatic utterances of his men about women. The poet's attitude should be looked for in his power of portraying women of fi

known in women of all centuries. As the translation of the beautiful play of "Alkestis" proceeds, Balaustion interprets its art and moral, defending her favorite poet, not with the ponderousness of a grave critic weighing the influences which may have molded his genius, or calculating the pros and cons of his style, but with the

truggle off s

closed behind

ull fact settli

ess and passio

ble fate. A

mourners fro

e, until we

stis, and so

ve really lef

sepulchre! Home

etos felt th

ll: when he lift

iding hands an

, knew the palac

knew the friendly

estis any

woe billow-like

h action, and Browning's feeling that Euripides saw its selfishness just as surely as Balaustion, despite the fact that it was in keeping

sobbing: nowi

ld-like, like h

the world ove

cement that hi

e of pain be

is eyes wide o

if not glad, c

rrow, he had ca

the height: non

t would seem

pact, I find s

irai! Give me

ife I kept by

, here stands yo

worthy just the

pother to es

orst you wiser

rd of this; no

obbing, and t

ge so much was

hould the Moi

nquish life n

ke some mercha

ight over to r

aving both wer

, he sorrowed,

emed to notice

ncerned her

nd in regard to Admetos may be cited Churton Collin

mbitious woman in Hellas would have coveted. This is so much taken for granted by the poet that all that he lays stress on in the drama is the virtue rewarded by the return of Alcestis to life, the virtue characteristic of Admetus, the virtue of hosp

will sympathize with Browning's supposition that after all Euripides had transcended current ideas on the subj

more or less external, growing out of conditions incident to the time rather than from any real trait of nature. Herakles' delight in the hospitality accorded him, his drinking and feastin

and in every way the equal of his spouse. Yet if we delve below this romanticism of Balaustion we shall find the p

ct with Apollo to die for her husband. He, when he learns it, refuses to accept the sacrifice, and unable to persuade him that his duty to humanity demands that

eceiver! This

ry death whic

s left behind a

y doubled-Sa

ide by side, ea

f the weapons

a contest wi

hould fling helm,

dless, swordles

aked o'er the

quipped from

other side, '

ger!' 'Back, frie

prompt rebu

one were fo

not be hims

e the embrace

pened, still be

estis was a

s' rapture wh

tly through the mouth of another speaker, and to incorporate with it a running commentary of criticism in blank verse. Still more daring was it to make play and criticism an episode in a dramatic monologue in which we learn not only the story of the re

tormented by the problem of evil and taking refuge in a partisanship of evil as a force which works for good and without which the world would be a waste of insipidity. Her suggested version of the Alkestis story converts Admetos into as much of a saint as Alkestis, and makes an exquisite and soul-stirring romance of their perfect union, though it must be admitted that it would do away with all the intensity and dramatic force of the play as it is pre

phanes, of defending Euripides, a translation of whose play, "Herakles," is included, and incidentally sketching the history of Greek comedy, all through the mouth of the one speaker, Balaustion. Not until one has grasped the law by whi

n with some mood of Balaustion's or as imagery in relation to some thought. While the reader is thus kept conscious of the background of wind and wave, as Balaustion and her husband voyage toward Rhodes, it is not until the end of the poem tha

nd ensuing upon this consideration makes it possible for her calmly to survey the events connected with its downfall, among which the picturesque episode of the dancing of the flute girls to the demolition of the walls of the Pir?us is conspicuous. She then sees the vision of the immortal Athens while Sparta the victorious in arms will die. Then comes a mood in which she declares it will be better to face the grief than to brood over it, which leads to her proposing to Euthukles that they

toph

account of the effect of the death of Euripides upon the Athenians as witnessed by Euthukles, his death being the occasion of Aristophanes' call on Balaustion. What she calls the prologue is really the

the end it will be perceived, I think, that it serves the artistic purpose of placing Aristophanes in proper perspective. Balaustion with her exquisitely human moods and progressive spirit forms the right complement to the decaying ideals of Aristophanes, and gives him the proper flavor of a

he outcome of a mood on the part of Balaustion, so the better way of following Aristophanes through what seems

of dramatic performances by curtailing the chorus. In a spirit of bravado he declares that he does not care so long as he has his actors left. A coarse reference causes Balaustion to turn and he changes his mood. He acknowledges he is drunk and rushes off into a defence of drunkenness in general for playwrights and for himself, which on this occasion came about on account of the supper he and his players have attended. He rattl

dently piqued, does not answer, but makes personal remarks upon the manner of her speech, asking her if she learned tragedy from him-Euripides. This starts

ever cared to see the following. Aristophanes avows he can show cause why he wrote them, but glances off in a sarcastic reference to Euripides, whose art he says belongs to the closet or the cave, not to the world. He prefers to stick to the old forms of art and make Athens happy in what coarse way she desires. He then proceeds to enlarge upon what that is. Then he changes again and asks with various excursions into side issues (for example: the rise of comedy; how it is now being regarded by the go

til he touches on some of the sar

nt, a smartened up version of the "Thesmaphoriazousai," which had failed the year before. He describes his triumph with this which was being celebrated at the supper when the something happened which is now at la

cism, Aristophanes shows, follows on the part of the feasters, though Aristophanes' mood is one of sudden recognition of the value of Euripides. But when he, sobered for the t

that belong to Euripides, and immediately begins stabbing at him. Balaustion objects, and upon the theme of respect to the dead he begins his usual i

made, touching, as always, upon the criticisms of his opposers, and finally arriving at the chief point of difference between himself and Euripides, which he enlarges upon at grea

defence of Aristophanes. She picks up his points and makes her points against him usually by denying

g beyond human vision. The last characteristic touch is when Aristophanes catches up the psalterion and sings the lyric of Thamuris

. Repetitions which are not required for the full presentation of his case take their place as natural to a man who is not only inordinately vain but is immediately swayed by every suggestion and emotion that

this entirely unfavorable criticism the feeling of such distinguished classical scholars as Gilbert Murray and J. A. Symonds. The first Murray describes as a play "full of daring indecency, it is true, but the curious thing is that Aristophanes, while professing to ridicule the women, is all through on their side. The jokes made by the superior sex at the expense of the inferior-to give them their Ro

tion, the momentary suspension of the dramatic action by his seizure of the supposed baby, his slaughter of the swaddled wine jar, his apprehension by Cleisthenes, the devices and disguises by which Euripides endeavors to extricate his father-in-law from the scrape, and the final ruse by which he eludes the Scythian bowmen, and carries off Muesilochus in triumph-all these form a series of highly diverting comic scenes." Again, "There is no passage in Aristophanes more amusing than the harangue of Muesilochus. The port

rather what she thinks he might be than wh

! Glory of t

st who castig

ightning lambe

tree, misshap

s with unvin

t's laying bl

t that springs

rn and purif

purpose: just w

t, as rightly q

aves', fools',

lled place fire

se, sagaciou

the laurel, lea

hell or trag

auds be singed

re or less sarcastic, meaning to imply that such Aristophanes might be but is not.

its hollow eye-sockets suggest infinite possibilities of profoundest irony. Buffoonery carried to the point of paradox, wisdom disguised as insanity, and gaiety concealing the whole sum of human disappointment, sorrow and disgust, seem ready to escape from its open but rigid lips, which are molded to a proud perpetual laughter. It is a la

wisdom, and at times, in such lyrics as those in "The Clouds," the poetic charm of Aristophanes, the person of fastidious taste, whether a Greek girl of his own day, or a man of these latter days,

d brute blows, whi

pass him in

ting, or true

suasion nor need

vent an entirely new species of comedy. That sort of thing can be done by one who has turned hi

of life, and, above all, his treatment of his opponent's alleged vices, may well be questioned. Yet admitting that he often opposed what was best in his age, or advocated it on the lowest grounds, admitting that his slanders are beyond description and that, as a rule, he only attacks the poor and the leaders of the poo

ith Euripides, yet curiously enough, as critics have pointed out, Aristophanes imitates Euripides to a noteworthy extent, so much so that the dramatist Cratinus invented a word to

tial love for Euripides, her charity toward Aristophanes the man, if not toward his work, show how deep and far-reaching her sympathies were. Again, her imagination flashes forth in her picturesque descriptions of the ruined Athens and her prophetic picture of the new Athens, of the spirit which will ar

ay, opinion certainly differs. History is, for the most part, silent about women. As Mahaffy says, it

ined and intellectual Helen, of the innocent and spirited Nausikaa, of the gentle and patient Andromache, had passed away. Men no longer sought and respected the society of the gentler sex. Would that Euripides had even been familiar, as Homer was, with the sound of women brawling in the streets! For in these days they were confined to Asiatic silence and seclusion, while the whole life of the men, both in business and recreation, was essentially

all the grace and delicacy of female character disappeared. Intellectual power in women was distinctly associated with moral depravity, so that excessive ignorance and stupidity was considered the only guarantee of virtue

losophers alone can we hope for a glimpse into the average character and position of Athenian women. Here at least we might have expected that the portraits drawn with such consummate skill by Homer would have been easily transferred to the Athenian stage. But to our astonishment we find the higher social feelings toward women so weak that

kles, who painted the most ideal women which the imagination of a refined Athenian could conceive, and consider his most celebrated characters, his Antigone and his Elektra. A calm, dispassionate survey will,

Euripides is tainted by the feeling that they oug

des which are uncomplimentary to women, says: "It is impossible to weigh occasional sententious sarcasms agai

Aristophanes makes the women of Athens conspire for revenge against him. Of course he was really the reverse. He loved and studied and expressed the women whom the Socratics ignored and Pericles advised to stay in their rooms. Crime, however, is always more striking and palpable than virtue. Heroines like Medea, Phaedra, Stheneboia, A?rope, Clytemnestra, perhaps fill the imagination more than those of the angelic or devoted type-Alcestis, who died to save h

least, in part, as models. Besides, there was undoubtedly a new woman movement in the air or Plato in his "Republic" would not have suggested a plan for educating men and women alike. The free women of Athens

ified in drawing such a woman as Balaustion, and that a woman of her penetrating intellect a

ism and appreciation, it can be on the whole accepted as reflecting what would

her than entirely broad-minded. Take the consensus of opinion of modern critics and we find them all agreed in regard

vor of his friends and against his foes. It is true that Aristophanes did not bring back again the golden days of Greece; true that his comedy revealed a corruption latent in Athenian life. But neither was Euripides in any sense a savior. Impartiality regards them both as equal

le Euripides shines forth a saint as well as a sage. Balaustion, for her part, beautiful as her conception truly is, takes up a position which even Plato could not have assumed. Into her mouth Mr. Browning has put the views of t

obable that she might be prophetic of a time when Euripides will be recognized as the true power. Any disciple of a poet ahead of his time perceives these things. One should be careful in judging of the poem as good modern criticism not to be entirely guided by the opinions of Balaustion. It should never be forgotten that it is a dramatic poem in which Aristophanes is allowed to speak for himself at great length, and whatever can be accepted as good argument for himself upon his own ground should be set over against the sweeping strictures of Balaustion.

nd emotional natures. Any criticism of the poets who figure in the poem, or of the larger question of the quarrel between tragedy and comedy, should be deduced indirectly, as implied in the sympathetic presentation of both sides, not based exclusively upon direct expressions of opinion on either side. So regarded it would seem that Browning was able to a

many people think her language as pure and elegant as Pericles, and Pericles says she was never seen out of temper or forgetful of what argument to urge first and most forcibly. When all is said, however, it

oetess who gr

ries that sha

and title f

his droppings

aged forth, the classical poems of the other great names of the century seem almost like child's play. Landor's poems on Greek subjects sound like imitations in inferior material of antiquity. Arnold's are even duller. Swinburne tells his Greek tales in an endless flow of rhyt

Savag

y of a wanderer who has become so habituated to adventures that he is quite incapable of settling down with Penelope for the remainder of his life. One cannot quite forgive the poet for calling the ever youthful and beautiful Penelope, whose hand was sought by so many suitors, and who, although twenty years had passed, might still be quite young, an "aged wife." It has always seemed to the writer like a wholly unnecessary stab at a very beautiful story, and the poem would have been just as effective if Ulysses' hunger for lands beyond the sun had no

ly because of their haunting music, which even Swinburne cannot equal, but because of a deeper vein of thought running through them. As far as t

e child of the Greeks, not that he makes any slavish attempt to reproduce a Greek atmosphere as it existed in the lifetime of Gre

ymons first spoke of the resemblance; and almost every other critic with the exception of Mr. Nettleship has dwelt mainly upon that aspect of the poem which bears out the comparison. But why, it might very well be asked, did Browning, if he intended to

t, and jealous of any interference in behalf of the race which he detested-the race of man. Thus Prometheus stands out as a hero in Greek mythology, a mediator between man and the blind anger of a god of unconditional power; and Prometheus, with an

hoice, m

ned-I will c

rtals found mi

Hera.... Thus his conceit drave him to an act of enormous folly, but the man soon suffered his deserts, and received an exquisite torture." Ixion, then, in direct contrast to Prometheus, stands forth an embodiment of the most detestable of sins, perpetrated simply for personal ends. To depict such a man as this in an attitude of defiance, and yet to justify his defiance, is a far more difficult problem than to justify the already admired heroism of Prometheus. It is entirely characteristic of Browning that he should choose perhaps the most unprincipled c

ace behind it the subtle reasoning. Mr. Nettleship has given by far the best

nd with one touch of pitying power Zeus might have dispersed "this film-work, eye's and ear's." It is entirely the fault of Zeus that he had sinned; and having done so will external torture make him repent any more who has repented already? This is the old, old problem that has taxed the brains of many a philosopher and the faith of many a theologian-the reconcilement of the existence of evil with an omnipotent God. Then follows a comparison between the actions of Zeus, a god, and of Ixion, the human king; and Ixion declares could he have known all, as Zeus does, he would have warded off evil from his subjects, would have seen that they were trained aright from the first-in fact, would not have allowed evil to exist, or failing this, could he have seen the heart of the criminals and realized how they repented he would have given them a chance to retrieve their past. Ixion now realizes that his human ideal i

n, symbolic of man, arrogantly supposes that he is capable of putting himself on an equality with Divinity by conceiving the entire nature of Divinity, that out of his finite mind he can construct the absolute god, and this is the sin, or, better, the aberration of sense, which results in the crystallization of his former inadequate conceptions into an anthropomorphic god, and causes his own downfall. Ixion, now fully aroused to the fact that the god he has been defying is but his own miserable conception o

tual development of man. Pure in its essence, the spirit learns through the obstructions of sense to yearn forever for higher attainment, and this constitutes the especial blessedness of man as con

, where ligh

st thou-Zeus, keep t

the great masters of antiquity, or simply use their mythology as a well-spring of romance to be clothed in whatever vagaries of style the individual poet might be able to invent, the aim of the future poet should be to reconstruct the life and thought of that wonderful civilization. One playwright, at least, has made a step in the righ