*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78519 *** THE ART OF SCANSION BY Elizabeth Barrett Browning WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY ALICE MEYNELL LONDON Privately printed by Clement Shorter, December 1916 PREFACE My friend Mrs. Meynell has obliged me with a few words of introduction to this letter by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, here printed for the first time in an edition of twenty-five copies. It was written when she was twenty-one years of age, and residing at her father’s house near Ledbury in Herefordshire. She did not meet Robert Browning until nineteen years later, but her girlish enthusiasm for poetry is reflected in this letter. Her correspondent, Sir Uvedale Price (1747–1829), did not live to see her recognition as a great poet, although her _Essay on Mind_ was published when she was nineteen and her _Battle of Marathon_, published in our day, was written at the age of fourteen. Price was a Herefordshire neighbour. He was a schoolfellow of Charles James Fox at Eton. He had great ideas on gardening, and developed them in his own grounds at Foxley and wrote an _Essay on the Picturesque_ in 1784, enlarged afterwards into a three-volume work. Sir Walter Scott utilised Price’s ideas when he laid out the gardens at Abbotsford. Price was created a baronet in 1828. Letters from him are to be found in Miss Berry’s _Journals_. Miss Barrett’s letter was doubtless inspired by Uvedale Price’s _An Essay on the Modern Pronunciation of Greek and Latin_, which he had had privately printed at Oxford in the year 1827. I have not seen the book, a copy of which he doubtless gave to his fair neighbour. Its perusal served, I am sure, to explain certain obscure allusions in the letter. It urged that “our system of pronouncing the ancient languages is at variance with the principles and established rules of ancient prosody and the practice of the best poets.” CLEMENT SHORTER. INTRODUCTION It is interesting to see Elizabeth Barrett eager over the dead languages. In her own living language she was modern in her day, more modern than any contemporary except the poet whom, nearly twenty years after this letter was written and the controversy closed, she married. It was modern to write poetry as she wrote, with an emphatic use of modern prose words; unlike Wordsworth’s, not at all childlike as were his. Robert Browning and Elizabeth have a peculiar tone of defiance in their nineteenth-century English; in the most gentle Elizabeth’s verse it is nearly swaggering, certainly swashing and martial. Nothing could be more sharply cut off from the eighteenth century, and the seventeenth, and the sixteenth than the vocabulary of _Aurora Leigh_, and, English apart, nothing could be more separated from Antiquity than the style that was most characteristically hers. In her quieter moments, when she is not marching, in doublet and hose, the march of her blank verse, but pacing softly in the strictest measure of the bonds that all true poets so love—the bonds of numbers, stress, quantity, rhyme, and final shape—the great beauty of her sonnets proves her delight in that order, and in these the diction is inconspicuous. It is in the romantic poems, those that deal with the lady and the knight, that the modernism is again evident. Where, in her language, is any trace of her reading of the older English? Where in her style is any sign of her Latin and Greek? In her most characteristic work she does not sow with her hand; she tosses out the basketful, with a gesture generous but wilful. In one respect—the point on which there was no question of deference to Antiquity—she shows none to her English masters. Thence her rhymes: “children” and “bewildering,” “islands” and “silence,” and the rest. She had the right to make these experiments, and it is as evident a sign of her resolute novelty as her husband’s different and less tolerable rhymes were of his. But we may take such rhymes not only as demonstrations of a new independence; they may have been in part due to her peculiar position as the most secluded of poets. Elizabeth Barrett saw and spoke to very few. She cannot have gathered much of the pronunciation of English that was then usual. The friend to whom as a girl she wrote this and other letters on the art of metre was so old as to be numbered among eighteenth-century authors; he was not of her time. If she had the habit of dropping her final g’s, for instance, there might be none to correct it. It is noticeable that she writes of the word “patriotism” as generally pronounced in five syllables. The accepted way is to sound it as only three—crowded ones, it is true, but only three, and any other way would seem to us provincial. Especially would an educated ear resent the pronouncing of the last three letters in “patriotism” in two syllables. Elizabeth Barrett’s comments on a few of Milton’s lines leave her reader at liberty to accept them or depart from them. No authority except that of Milton’s shade will ever decide a question as to one of his lines (page 10): whether we should begin it with two rather strained iambic feet (which would be my scansion) or with a strained long syllable followed by a dactyl (which is hers). It is remarkable, by the way, that she never uses the word “stress” in writing of English prosody. It seems to me to be the only safe word; “accent” being alien and ambiguous, and “quantity” a valuable but nearly lawless part of our metre—present in every poet’s intention in his line, but perhaps best unnamed. “Her glories shall never fade,” wrote Browning of his wedded poet (in regard, by the way, to a poem in which she rhymed “common” with “human”), and they never shall. She is within English literature for ever and ever. Coventry Patmore held poetry to be the gravest among the undertakings of man, and Elizabeth Barrett Browning—child, maid, and wife—took her vocation with gravity, passion, and delight. In this controversy on “accents” ancient and modern, she withstands her old friend, literally foot to foot. She might even, but that she was humbly obstinate and courteous and sweet, have lost her temper over a matter so exciting. And what is so exciting to poets as these questions of their technique? If I had ever had a fierce passage of arms with Francis Thompson (but I never had) it would have been on the question of trochaic endings, and whether one might pause on them before carrying on the weak syllable to the next line. The girl who so passionately cared for her Greek was, in time, the great woman who wrote memorable English passionately. The slightness of the connexion between two such beloved studies seems an incident in her life not easily understood; but she was for poetry first and last. ALICE MEYNELL. THE ART OF SCANSION A Letter from ELIZABETH BARRETT, afterwards MRS. BROWNING, to UVEDALE PRICE, afterwards SIR UVEDALE PRICE, Bart. To UVEDALE PRICE, Esq. Hope End. April, 1827. My dear Sir,—I shall not detain you for any unnecessary prologuizing purpose, but with your permission shall go en avant at once, and “tell you what I am going to say.” Pray have a great deal of indulgence ready for me, for I assure you I shall want all you can spare. Page 32. “There is a manifest absurdity in transferring the Latin mode of accentuation to the Greek, yet we certainly should not like to follow the Greek mode.” Here you give the general taste a great deal more credit than it deserves, and more than you would give if you were acquainted with a material circumstance which I certainly imagined I had mentioned to you, but which either you must have overlooked in one of my letters, or I omitted in the great hurry with which I wrote one of them. This is that they do at the Charterhouse precisely what you say we should not like to do: they read Greek by the Greek accents, and then dismiss their prisca fides for the sake of embracing a new kind of idolatry, which has not even the advantage of being sanctified (may I profane that word?) by old prejudices. In short they have left Belze_bub_ and taken to Beelze_bul_, and therefore I hope you will grant them, _par parenthèse_, the special licence of liking to do anything that we certainly should not like to do; and of being, at least in this instance, “uniformly and consistently absurd.” Page 34. There is a difference in the character of the anapæstic and dactylic rapidity, and one that has been very happily marked by Marmontel in a very few words, “le dactyl s’elance, et l’anapeste se précipite.” This, I am persuaded, is not, what it may perhaps appear at first sight, a fanciful distinction. I am very sure it is not and cannot help pausing here to say how much I have been struck with the whole of this forcible illustration of Marmontel’s position. Milton who often likes to fill English verse from the iambic and trochaic dynasties,—you _must_ let me think so still,—seems to have been quite aware of the distinction on which the position is founded: and has made admirable use of it in a line expressive of the lost Angels’ ‘ruining’ from Heaven— Eternal wrath Burnt āftĕr thĕm | tŏ thĕ bōttŏmlĕss pīt. where by the grand situation of the first long monosyllable we have revealed to us, first the Avenger with fixed foot on the battlement of Heaven,—and then the dactylic out-darting of the scorching thunderbolt—and then the headlong and precipitate descent of the condemned. The intermediate monosyllable which, as you observe, is necessary in an hexametral union of the two rhythms has been omitted by Milton, and perhaps with a view to the expression. For the pause by which we compensate the metre, adds, as I conceive, very singularly to the effect of this sublime line; by giving something unusual to the cadence that arrests the attention with the voice; as if one fear made us take breath a moment before we could turn from the contemplation of _power_ to its terrible effect. Reasoning as Paley’s savage did about the watch, it becomes clear to me that the remarkable construction of this line is not accidental, and what makes me still more satisfied that Milton really intended to express the distinction in question is the circumstance that during the whole of his description he has had so evidently in his head the sublime combat of the immortals in the _Theogony_, where Hesiod has made use of the very same cadence,—tho’ of course with an intermediate syllable,—to express the precipitation of the conquered. Ουρανοθεν κατιων δεκατη It is clear then to my mind that Milton considered his “_tŏ thĕ bōttŏmlĕss pīt_” as equivalent to Hesiod’s κατιων δεκατη; and that consequently he would have agreed with you in your pronunciation of the Greek, and have accepted your position. “Accent, in its modern sense, gives length—both the first syllable of _bot´tomless_ and the concluding word _pit´_ being accented,—and _long_, according to Hesiod’s analogy,—if that be admitted, tho’ _short_ according to the new heresy. Do not be ungrateful to Milton, and try to resolve his verse into iambi and trochees: which you will here find a much too difficult matter to accomplish. This is one instance out of the thousand he offers us: Of English cut on Greek and Latin. I know you will add, and justly; Like fustian heretofore on satin. “Page 36. In the second book of the Æneid, there is an instance of a mixture of the two rhythms, but where the _expression is chiefly in the anapæstic_.” I dare to contend upon your own principle founded on Marmontel’s distinction that in your simile quoted from Virgil, the expression neither lies _chiefly_ in the anapæstic cadence, or _chiefly_ in the dactylic but _equally_ in both. I appeal to Philip against Philip,—and beg you to consider whether the dactylic impetus at the beginning of the line Fertur in arva furens cumulo does not bring to the mind the first out-bursting of the spumeus amnis, where it leaps forward from the stronghold of its banks,—as much as the anapæstic fall does its rushing descent upon the plains. You, who are so just and rigid in your ‘division of property’ should really adjudge this case equitably. Page 37. “We have not many choriambi in English and of them none I believe are of Greek or Latin or perhaps of Saxon origin.” I like so much all you say about the choriambi, that I am the more sorry you should shut the door of English poetry in their face. If they were lame Ugly and slanderous to our mother tongue I would not care, I then might be content but it really seems to me a little hard that we should be denied their acquaintance the minute after you have proved it to be most desirable. I shall try to maintain that, neither we or the choriambi having a disinclination to each other’s company, you are very uncharitable to make such mischief between us; and I shall therefore put down one or two respectably sounding words derived from the Greek and Latin,—tho’ not from Greek and Latin choriambi,—as candidates for that rank in English. You will, I think, admit chārăctĕrīze—tēmpĕrămēnt—tēmpĕrăture,—if you can by any means get over their disallegiance to ancient quantity. You may, perhaps admit pātrĭŏtīsm: but I bring this example forward with no kind of triumph: for, in common discourse, we pronounce it much as five syllables; and find it rough and unmanageable on reducing it to _four_; which however, I believe, is undeviatingly done in poetry. The most inharmonious line Campbell ever wrote has no reason to be obliged to it— If the pātrĭŏtīsm ŏf yŏur fathers. You may not, _a fortiori_, refuse to admit rīghtĕousnēss—of Saxon extraction,— “Just confidence and native rīghtĕoŭsnēss” and its connections _par la suite_; hīdĕoŭsnēss—glōrĭoŭsnēss—hōrrĭblĕnēss, &c. I think līnĕămēnt tho’ pleading guilty to the imperfections you find out in chārĭŏtēer, has no weak claim— “Six wings he wore to shade His līnĕămēnts divine.” And vīrtŭŏsēst,—rather a rusty word,—receives testimonials from Milton for itself and kindred— Seems wisest, vīrtŭŏsēst, discreetest, best. It seems to me that you can only make one objection to my next candidate— Oh ālĭĕnāte from God! oh spirit accursed— And that another is almost unexceptionable Plēnĭpŏtēnt on earth of matchless might, I feel so sure about this last word plēnĭpŏtēnt that I should not scruple to treat him as Atlas and make him bear the whole burden of my defence—without going on,—which I might do,—to such compound tetrasyllables as ōvĕrfătīgue—ōvĕr-dĕlīght—cōnquerŏr-like _sex_. Nēvĕrthĕlēss before dismissing the subject, it is quite proper for me to be candid, and confess that I am aware of the imperfection of most of our choriambi, and that, generally speaking, the foot is considerably _mutatus ab illo_ in the process of its naturalization into our language. But you do recognise our dactyls; for which they owe you no obligation; for you must do so on your principle, and the recognition is unattended with any complimentary or obliging expression on your part,—rather with Boileau’s pathetic remonstrance. Que vous ont fait nos oreilles Pour les traites si durement? Therefore I submit to you whether our choriambi do not deserve a similar recognition, tho’ possibly a similar remonstrance. Page 46. “If my mode of accenting Pope’s verse be thought the right one, it seems clear that a trochee at the beginning of an English verse, if followed by another trochee, tho’ it may give vigour, does not also produce grace.” I have so little intention of decrying the choriambus, in marking down the above passage, that I have merely been induced to do so by sympathizing very strongly with your delighted feelings respecting it,—and by a consequent regret that you should depreciate its propriety in the _second place_,—which you seem to do, with some reservation. There can I should think be no doubt as to the propriety of your reading, in Pope’s line,— Jumping hīgh ŏ’er thĕ shrūbs ŏf thĕ rōugh grōund and there can be no doubt that, according to your reading, the line has much more vigour than grace. The ungracefulness, however, seems to me produced, not so much by the choriambus, as by that very rough termination of the whole—a spondee preceded by a pyrrhic; so that, according to my idea, ce n’est que le _dernier_ pas qui coute,—unless indeed we take into consideration the cacophonous assembage of harsh consonants and vowels which are “rather seen than heard.” As the line stands, however, it is extremely expressive, but perhaps hardly a fair specimen of the introduction of a choriambus into the second place. There is a considerable degree less roughness and more impetuous energy in the following example Shoots ĭnvīsĭble vīrtue ē’en tŏ thĕ dēep where the _dernier pas_ is composed of another choriambus. I hope you do not disapprove of choriambi introduced into the internal part of the line, but as you only mention, approvingly, the incipient and final choriambus I am half afraid that you do. I shall not be satisfied if you profess to tolerate them sometimes “for the sake of expression,” a principle on which we admire many deformities, and among them those multiplied elisions that make Virgil’s line a “monstrum nonendum informe” in itself: The plea of _expression_ in versification is something like the plea of _expediency_ in morals; and the internal choriambi do not seem to me reduced to such a last resource. When a dactyl, or amphibrach, begins the verse, the choriambus appears to follow it in a singularly pleasing manner, giving to the cadence of the line a swelling graceful movement which is quite delightful to my ear: as in Lord Byron’s Thou wert a bēautĭfŭl thōught, and softly bodied forth or Shakespeare’s As zephyr blōwĭng bĕlōw the violet— which you can hardly find fault with; for you say (page 65) in your observations on a_mi_citi_am_ that “its cadence (that of a choriambus with a preceding short syllable) is of a very pleasing kind.” Also before the last iambus, as Chamberlayn has it, His yielding spirits now prepare to meet Death, clothed in thoughts whīte ăs hĭs wīnding sheet. I think with regard to these examples that they are both harmonious and expressive; tho’ in all of them we feel the “_fall_” which you mention,—in the case of the choriambus following the commencing trochee,—rather in a tone of regret as far as relates to the general harmony. To go to another part of the subject, I observe that you only notice two feet which follow the trochee commencing an English verse: viz. the iambus _usually_, and the trochee _casually_: whereas it is sometimes followed by a pyrrhic as in Milton’s— “Mȳrĭăds, bĕtwēen two brazen mountains lodged” “Embry̆ŏes and īdiots, eremites and friars—” and not unfrequently by a spondee with very good effect— “Bōne ŏf mȳ bōne, thou art, and from thy state Mine never shall be parted.” “Strāins hĭs yōung nērves and puts himself in posture.”—_Cymbeline._ “Rāpture! bōld mān! who temp’st the wrath divine.” Page 47. I am glad you have marked “Hīgh _ŏvĕr-ārched_” as a choriambus. It gives me an opportunity of writing down an anapæstic line of Stevens’s— Fire artillery tīer ŏvĕr tīer and of submitting to you whether you are not forced by the metre; your suprema lex; to treat _over_, the distinct dissyllable,—exactly as you have treated _over_,—the compounded; by taking away the accent. And if you take away the accent, which seems to me a most evident necessity, you are immediately reduced to another necessity quite as evident, that of recognizing English pyrrhics. I believe that English pyrrhics exist much in the same word that Latin unaccented words may be said to exist by the doctrine of atonics: and I am struck with a singular analogy between the two cases. There is, I concede, no English dissyllable, a pyrrhic _per se_; and, in Latin, according to Quinctillian “non est aliqua vox sine acuta.” But in Latin, according to Quinctillian, some words by juxtaposition with others lose their own accent, ex. gr: _circum litora_ or ab óres and, in an analogous manner many English dissyllables either by incorporation with other words, as Hīgh ŏvĕr-ārched, or by juxtaposition with them, as tīer ōvĕr tīer, lose their own accent, in its modern sense. English pyrrhics made by these means seem to me sufficiently abundant: I shall put down a few exemplary lines: one from Anstey The ladies you sēe vĕry jūstly remark from Cowper You spēak vĕry fīne and you lōok vĕry grāve. And again Anstey’s O’erflow all my hay, may my dōgs nĕvĕr hūnt and Cowper But the sound of the Chūrch-gŏĭng bell These valleys and rōcks nĕvĕr hēard— Nĕvĕr sīghed at the sound of a knell. Page 50. “As far as I have observed the hexameter never begins with a dispondee.” There are several examples to militate against the “_never_”: one I shall take from Lucretius— Immōrtāli sunt natura proedita certe and a very expressive one from the _Theogony_— Νικησαντες χερσιν ὑπερθυμους περ εοντας Page 54. By laying our accent wherever the Romans laid theirs, and nowhere else, we have left them but one dissyllabic foot in the language. Should we not, even by the misapplied accentual rule, give the Romans one or two iambi? It appears so; if there be any correctness in a note attached to my edition of Foster, where I find an extract from Ælius Donatus (supported by Victorinus) who makes some exceptions to the general rule of the accent falling on the _first_ of dissyllables “pro causa discretionis, ut in adverbio _pone_, ideo ne verbum putetur imperativi modi:—ut in ea particula quæ est _ergo_.” From which, it appears that our measure of absurdity is not yet filled up; that accent (or rather, as you would say, _quantity_, under its name) having turned so many iambi into trochees, has to do now; pro causa discretionis; the very different office of turning trochees into iambi; or else cry peccavi,—_pro causa discretionis_ indeed! This is a case analogous to that you mentioned to Mr. Commeline, of Θοαι and _diu_, and which he tried to get rid of by the adoption of a monosyllabic pronunciation. But such a measure, could it be admitted in that case, is no _panacea_,—as is obvious from the present case of _pone_ and _ergo_. Page 81. You observe relatively to the first lines of Virgil, first eclogue, that if an advocate for the system gave a length to _tu_ and _nos_ for the sake of expression “he would do wrong in respect to his system and its rules,—one of which is that all unaccented syllables should be quickly passed over to the next accented one.” I will submit to you with deference whether you do not rather _beg the question_ by calling _tu_ and _nos_ “unaccented syllables.” You are well aware of the old rule so simply and clearly stated by Franciscus Sanctius,—“accentum in se monosyllaba dictio ponit;” and tho’ the rule be, in practice, modified by the doctrine of atonics, yet I have some doubts,—and, _a fortiori_, an advocate of the system might possibly have,—whether such discriminating monosyllables should not in recitation be _separated_ from the neighbouring words, on account of the expression; and so claim a _length_ even on accentual principles. This is an impression which perhaps I should not have felt but for want of better information, and which I certainly should not communicate to you but in desire of it. You have now the whole history of my doubts and difficulties; as I have reported them very faithfully in obedience to your desire. The obedience was at least a proof of my confidence in your kindness; and in that light I hope you will consider it; for I have run a great risk in passing such an _Ægæan_ in such a _scaphula_. My _general_ debt of information, to you, is put down among those singular debts which are pleasant to think of, and which the debtor can never be expected to repay, but I must be allowed to thank you in particular for that _percussion vers le fin_ you give the _Abbate Scopha_. It is extremely forcible and entertaining,—and presents an example of your peculiar manner of amusing your readers—by _convincing_ them. You have indeed made it abundantly clear that the Abbate for his system’s credit should have been _muet_ as his French _e_. But, tho’ I have put off making the charge so long, my poetical conscience wont let me rest till I accuse you of committing heinous profanation in page 48; first by quoting _Wīll ŏ thĕ Wīsp_ contemptuously as “a little phrase,” and secondly by introducing it to your readers in such company as _Jāck ĭn ă bōx´_ | _Mōuse ĭn ă chēese´_, Būg ĭn ă rūg´, &c. And should you really feel “some regret” if it became the fashion to say _Wĭll ō thĕ Wĭsp_—Bŭg īn ă rūg &c.? Our poets, from Milton upwards and downwards, who have sanctified the first of those “little phrases” in their melodious verses, would sympathize feelingly in your regret; and might beg you at the same time to disengage Will o’ the wisp from Bug in a rug forthwith. Could not rīddle mĕ rēe do your business as well, without sacrificing such an Iphigenia? I have done reading your correspondence with Mr. Commeline; and with all your adversary’s ingenuity, am considerably confirmed in my convictions on your side. I thought it odd that an article of the Edinburgh Review should be referred to, on a philological subject; and, on looking into the one which Mr. Commeline calls the ‘Manual of his heresy,’ I was surprised to find us accused there of subverting the true metrical structure of Latin hexameters, even according to the accentual system “by _not_ laying our accent on the _long_ syllable, and by laying it on the short ones.” The Reviewer seems confused in his speculations: but that passage is so decidedly in favour of your position that I think you can hardly have seen the article or would have retorted Mr. Commeline’s own _Manual_ on himself. Papa was very glad to see you at Hereford, and _I_ was very glad to hear from him, _nomine mutato_, exactly what you have since said of _his_ good looks. We hope to have favorable accounts of you all; dear Miss Price in particular, and, with our best regards, Believe me Your grateful E. B. BARRETT.[1] Footnote 1: Mrs. Browning’s name was Elizabeth Barrett Barrett before her marriage. _Of this letter twenty-five copies only have been privately printed by Clement Shorter for distribution among his friends._ _London. December 1916._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES Page Changed from Changed to 4 in English. You will, I think, admit in English. You will, I think, admit c̄harătĕrīze—tēmpĕrămēnt—tēmpĕrăture,—if chārăctĕrīze—tēmpĕrămēnt—tēmpĕrăture,—if 5 tetrasyllables as tetrasyllables as ōvĕrfătīgue—ōvĕr-dĕlīght—cŏnquerŏr-like ōvĕrfătīgue—ōvĕr-dĕlīght—cōnquerŏr-like sex. Nēvĕrthĕlēss sex. Nēvĕrthĕlēss 6 Jumping hīgh aĭr thĕ shrūbs ŏf thĕ rōugh Jumping hīgh ŏ’er thĕ shrūbs ŏf thĕ grōund rōugh grōund 7 Shoots ĭnvīsĭble vīrtue ē’en tō thĕ dēep Shoots ĭnvīsĭble vīrtue ē’en tŏ thĕ dēep 9 Quinctillian “non est aliqua vox sine Quinctillian “non est aliqua vox sine acata.” But in Latin, according acuta.” But in Latin, according 9 Immōrtāli sunt natura proedita cesti Immōrtāli sunt natura proedita certe 9 Νικηὀαντες χερσιν ὑπερθυμους περ εοντας Νικησαντες χερσιν ὑπερθυμους περ εοντας 10 verbum putelier imperativi modi:—ut in verbum putetur imperativi modi:—ut in ea ea particula quæ est ergo particula quæ est ergo 10 analogous to that you mentioned to Mr. analogous to that you mentioned to Mr. Commeline, of θοαι and diu Commeline, of Θοαι and diu 11 Wĭsp—Bŭg īn ă rŭg &c.? Our poets, from Wĭsp—Bŭg īn ă rūg &c.? Our poets, from Milton upwards and downwards Milton upwards and downwards ● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained. ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. 5 *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78519 ***