R451200A. Dramatic Romances and Lyrics.
Douglas Jerrold’s Shilling Magazine, December 1845, pp. 565–566.
As reprinted in The Brownings’ Correspondence, 11, 363–364.
The poems published in this humble form seem to us the utterances of one of the few real poets of the age. Mr. Browning, however, is not popular, not even with the multitude of literary men, and his disdain of popular arts is doubtless the chief cause of his not being so. With his great talents and genius there is no doubt he could be as minutely particular as the most logical and prosaic reader could desire. But he has a soul of fire, and casts away every detail, every thought, that does not ministrate to the pourtrayal of the passion with which every line of his productions is fraught. This it is that makes his poetry appear so abrupt, so fragmentary, and, to those whose suggestive powers are sluggish, obscure. These qualities, which are objected to by some persons as blemishes, we take to be proofs of the Poet’s genuine inspiration. They display the terrible energy of his conceptions,—the [p. 566→] truth and earnestness of his visions. In this kind of poetry, to our minds the only true poetry, there is no straining after expressions to endeavour to create in the reader’s mind a heat and vehemence corresponding to the poet’s; but the language is simple and plain, and the might and effort are in the just conception of the image or idea. The poetry of epithets and exclamation exhausts the reader; but that of definite imagery and idea exhilarates by the energy of thought and feeling it generates. Verbiage, fluency, hacknied phraseology are abhorred by Mr. Browning, and he will go far out of his way to avoid them; and in so doing he may sometimes miss the finest expression of his thought. But this it is which makes his verses and whole poems as fresh and cheering as if he was the first poet that had learnt to write. Nor is this originality confined to his phraseology, but extends itself to his versification, which, to ears bedazed with the slimy monotony of the common versification, may be considered rugged and distorted. To the reader impregnated with the passion of the matter, it starts however into a harmony new, congenial, and invigorating. In fact, Mr. Browning is a poet, and if so, the form and quality of his verse must be as novel as his thoughts. The rhythm that the true poet utters is a part of his mental conception, and cannot be separated from it without producing dissonance.
Nothing could be easier than to follow the fashion of the critics of the earlier day towards Wordsworth, Keats, and Shelley, and to quote lines and passages which, abstracted from their position, would sound weak and purposeless, and ask triumphantly if such are to be considered poetry? And by such means, no doubt, Mr. Browning will be tested, by many who consider poetry to consist of a series of metrical epigrams. To those however who come in simple honesty to hear the poet uncontaminated by the cant of academical criticism, and with but a moderate share of impulse and imagining power, there can be no doubt the god will reveal himself in his “might, majesty, and dominion,” and Browning will be acknowledged a poet.
Reviewed:
Bells & Pomegranates. No. VII. Dramatic Romances & Lyrics (RB), London: Edward Moxon, 1845.
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